


All is Aglow

by spittingfeathers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Aged-Up Character(s), Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, F/M, Fix-It, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sansa is 18, stannis is 31
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3818593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spittingfeathers/pseuds/spittingfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is very little time left before Stannis arrives in the Blackwater and your brother at our gates. Not all men are honourable and when they’ve been fighting and their blood is up, even if they’ve been told not to by their kings and lords, they’ll still come. They’ll still rape. Having your little bow may just save you if the battle goes ill. Gods know that women do most things better than these incompetent men anyhow.”</p><p>Sansa nods and agrees, though inside her stomach is rolling with anticipation.</p><p>They do not fear her, she thinks, but they should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Stannis Baratheon, no matter whom the words came from, was said to be a Just man. A Just man, in her opinion, was what Kings Landing needed. That, and to be rid of the Lannisters, though that might have just been her personal preference.

It was weeks ago that Joffrey had called her to court to berate her once again. He’d told her that her ‘whore of a mother’ had managed to ally her brother to Stannis Baratheon, and, make his own brother Renly Baratheon bend the knee! She still bore the scars from the fists of the Kings Guard, but it didn’t matter because they were coming for her! Rob was coming and King Stannis and Lord Renly, and when they won she would be able to return home with mother to Winterfell.

Sansa knew that she shouldn’t smile in front of Joffrey or the Court, so instead she cried. Her tears and quiet sobs seemed to please him and soon enough he sent her back to her rooms though not without promising her the whip next time. She had curtsied and tried to keep herself covered with her torn dress, quietly thanking the Hound when he wrapped his Kings guard cloak around her shoulders to keep her covered. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling when she caught the Hound glaring at those who leered her way.

It didn’t matter that the Kings Guard had beaten her at Joffrey’s command. It didn’t matter that they had torn her dress and the court had almost seen the lacing of her corset. _None_ of it mattered because her rescue was imminent. There was no way Kings Landing could withstand such a force. Sansa had a week of pure bliss before she heard mutterings of Wildfire that she grew concerned.

Then when she heard it from the Queen herself, smirking as Sansa’s eyes went wide, her concern quickly turned to fear. She couldn’t look for information into the substance obviously as it would raise suspicion but, much to her surprise, Shae seemed to know far more than a simple hand-maiden should. Apparently Lord Tyrion had been shown barrels of the stuff, stored in tunnels beneath the city from the reign of the Targaryens. The plan was that the Lannisters intended to use it to destroy Stannis’ fleet of ships and set fire to the foot soldiers, creating a barrier about the city while their archers picked off the rest until they all either died or retreated. It would be a quick battle either way if Wildfire was involved.

Her hopes and dreams seemed to crumble before her eyes and Shae’s concerned words were drowned out by the loud rush of blood in her ears as she sank onto her bed. Shae didn’t want to tell her the plan at first, seeing how it had made Sansa react, but she had insisted and Shae had obeyed. She told her that they would pour it into the water and fling barrels of Wildfire at the ships, lighting them with burning arrows. Sansa had felt so ill at the prospect that she was out of sorts for days, luckily it was easily covered with excuses about her anxieties for the battle, and Cerci had smirked when she heard, and Joffrey laughed at her fear. She spent more time in the Godswood than ever, the floor littered with red leaves, praying that the battle would be over swiftly and that _King Stannis_ would prevail. She prayed for her family’s safety and the survival of her brother’s banner men.

Then, she prayed for the deaths of Joffrey and Cerci, the guards who seemed to enjoy hitting her at the Kings command, and the courtiers who laughed at her misfortune.

It once would have spooked her to pray for anyone’s death, let alone so many, but her time in Kings Landing had hardened her a little and now, each time she pandered and sang her pretty lies to the Lannisters, she spoke the truth in her mind.

“I am the King!” Joffrey had screeched.

_Stannis Baratheon is the true King. You are a Bastard born of Incest. I pray you will die._

“My father was a traitor, Your Grace.”

_He was not a traitor. My father was right._

“You are a weak, silly girl!”

_I am of the North. Winter is coming._

As the day of the battle drew nearer, merely three weeks until the armies would be at their gates, Sansa felt panic rising within her. They had barred exits and entrances and stopped the ravens. No one was to leave or enter the city without permission and so the Wildfire beneath the city remained a secret and her brother’s army marched on, clueless.

The knowledge of their sure destruction lay heavily on Sansa’s shoulders leaving her restless at night and drained during the day. They would have no idea what awaited them when their ships entered the blackwater or their soldiers approached the walls. It would be awful, and there was nothing she could do.

During a meeting with the Queen, where she had insisted Sansa drink wine, a silly idea became her salvation with the blessing of the Queen herself.

“There is little we women can do to protect ourselves — our greatest weapon is that which we have between our legs, Little Dove. You’ll find men use their swords freely enough. Both kinds of swords. Remember that.”

Feeling a little dizzy and tongue loose from the wine, Sansa couldn’t help but blurt what next came to her mind, trying not to slur though the Queen noticed and seemed amused. “What about swords or daggers then?” Sansa said.

The Queen laughed. It wasn’t a nice sound.

“Swords are not a woman’s weapon. A Dagger, yes. Perhaps a bow and arrow.” she looked at Sansa over the rim of her goblet, laying back against the many cushions piled up in her solar. “Why question this now Little Dove, surely you are not thinking of taking up the bow?”

Sansa blinked owlishly, “Should I?”

The Queen too was a little drunk and found the idea hilarious. She laughed until there were tears in her eyes and the wine spilled from the cup and splashed onto the plush velvet cushions. “Would you like that?” She asked, “—come now, don’t protest, you suggested such a thing! I will even set you up a tutor—“ she waved over her guard from the corner of the room. “Ser Meryn. Tell my _little_ brother’s sell sword, Bronn that he will teach Lady Sansa how to shoot a bow!”

Ser Meryn sneered at Sansa but bowed and ducked out of the room to do as he was bid.

Sansa had spluttered and protested but the Queen just laughed and told her to drink more wine.

It wasn’t until later that Sansa allowed herself the tiniest smirk. What the Queen didn’t know was that she had given Sansa a way to save herself.

* * *

The day was hot and sticky and due to her current activity Sansa was not wearing her usual attire. The Queen had sent her new clothes with a maid - shirts, waistcoats, breeches and leather boots that could also be used for riding. Sansa had not needed to pretend to be flustered. She was sure the Queen would ask the maid what her reaction had been and so made sure to look as shocked and bewildered as possible.

When the maid left with a message of thanks to the Queen, Sansa looked down at the clothes Shae was sorting out and didn’t bother to hold back her trepidation.

“You will look fine my Lady, just as fine as if you cut holes in a sack and walked about as if it were a dress…” Shae told her as she helped Sansa into the clothes.

The shirt and waistcoat were well made and clung tightly to her body, the loose corset Shae had helped her put on underneath helped keep her shape, which was fine, though she did feel a little bare and insisted on adding a light cloak which fell from her shoulders to the floor. The boots were fine of course, soft brown leather and reaching up to brush the bottom of her knees. The only article in the pile that ruffled her feathers were the trousers. Made of soft dark fabric they clung to her like a second skin. Surely these were not appropriate for a high-born Lady — even if she was about to train with a bow? Perhaps the Queen sought to embarrass her more?

Her maid had the gall to laugh at how uncomfortable she looked.

Sansa frowned, “Don’t laugh, it’s not funny at all!”

“Oh but it is! you look like a fish out of water!”

“I am wearing breeches - I have never worn breeches before…it feels so odd!”

Before she had dared to leave her chambers Sansa had looked at herself in the mirror, her face turning pink at the sight of her bottom hugged so tightly. She was definitely glad of the cloak.

Shae noticed her hesitation and disappeared for several minutes until she arrived back dressed in breeches and a shirt, though of a much lesser quality.

Sansa felt a true smile cross her face then and she hugged her maid tightly. “Thank you!”

“Yes, yes…” Shae said patting her back, “let us go now.”

* * *

“Better.”

Sansa keeps herself composed as a Lady should, even though her arms ache fiercely and the skin of her hands is sore and red. At least her arrow is now a little closer to the target than it had been before - sailing over the top and into the bark of a nearby tree.

It may also be due to the fact that the unusual activity has gained an audience from those who slow their steps so they can watch her better. Soldiers who spar in the area behind their own have been caught unawares in their fights when their eyes flicker to her. Their stares burn almost as hotly as the sun and she flushes with embarrassment that the sight of a Lady here is so unusual.

Of course, their looks are understandable. She is not in her usual elegant gowns or sewing quietly somewhere, and eventually someone must have passed word on because her discomfort and look of embarrassment at her nonexistent skills is what draws Joffrey outside. He laughs and jeers loudly at her poor attempts at hitting the target. She is trying though. Eventually, there is only so much he can say about how poorly she shoots before he grows bored with watching her struggle and fail, and wanders away to do something else.

Bronn, is a surprisingly patient teacher, and once Joffrey has left, Bronn sends the rest of the curious crowd off and adjusts her grip. She doesn’t see the jealous glances sent his way when he stands close and helps her aim again.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, barely moving her lips and low enough that only he can hear. Bronn, Lord Tyrion and Shae are some of the few people who have actually been kind to her whilst in Kings Landing, even after she lost favour with the King and Court.

“Just doin’ as I’m told, My Lady” he says back, there’s a smile on his face and Sansa finds herself giving a smaller one back.

The smile wilts a little when she thinks of Arya. Her wild sister would have had no problem at all doing this. Most likely she would have hit the target every time and been enlisted to fight with the archers at the coming battle — if they had actually been allied with the Lannisters. If she was being truthful, Arya would have been charged with King-slaying if they’d set her loose on the battlefield with a bow and Joffrey nearby. Though he would probably be hiding behind a wall of guards, it was a nice thought and she almost smiles properly.

“Arm up a little higher” Bronn prompts, nudging her elbow upward, and she does as she’s told.

_…the lone wolf dies, but the Pack survives…_

Sansa would ensure her Pack’s safety, even if it meant losing her own.

She aims the arrow, breathes out slowly, and lets it fly.

* * *

In the first week her attempts are poor at best, pathetic at worst. She cries softly into her pillows at night, biting down on her lip at the pain in her bandaged hands, but it doesn’t stop her because in the morning she is up, dressed and at the archery range and practices until the healed skin cracks and bleeds again. When they retire back to her rooms, Shae tuts over the condition of her hands and begins what becomes routine between them. Shae washes the dust and dirt from her hands in warm water as gently as she can and smears a cool salve over the top before wrapping each hand in clean bandages. Being a Lady, the only calluses she’s built up are those on her fingers from embroidery, and so this new, rougher activity pains her considerably.

Bronn offers numerous times to stop the lessons but Sansa just shakes her head and says that it is something she must do. Perhaps he sees the fear in her eyes, fear that the Lannisters might loose, but only Sansa knows that it is fear that they might _win_.

“There ain’t no one goin’ to hurt you, My Lady. You’ll be safe with the queen when those bastards come callin’ at our gates.” Bronn says quietly, trying to comfort her as Shae fetches the arrows Sansa has shot about the archery range.

“I know ser, but surely there isn’t any harm in protecting yourself as well though the need for it is very much reduced?”

Bronn pats her shoulder and opens his mouth to say something when Shae appears, dropping the arrows back into the small barrel at their feet and glares at Bronn. His eyes open wide and he holds his hands up, taking a wary step back.

Sansa holds back a giggle at the sight of the fierce sell sword backing away from her hand-maiden.

“Get back to teaching, or I will make _you_ collect the arrows!” Shae tells him.

“Shae!” Sansa whispers scandalised when she realises what her maid had said was not in jest, “You cannot do that!”

Bronn just laughs and grins at Shae, “Aye, My Lady, I’m afraid your hand-maiden could make me do quite a lot of things.” There is an element of suggestion there but ultimately, it flies over Sansa’s head and Shae simply orders him to teach again as Bronn laughs.

* * *

The first time she hits the target, one long week later, she momentarily forgets her Lady-like tendencies and cheers loudly, throwing her arms up in the air.

Bronn’s chest puffs up like a peacock and he grins at her, saying “Well done, My Lady” while Shae comes over from the side to congratulate her.

Later, when Bronn takes the arrow from the target he puts it to one side and tells Sansa that she should keep this one. She does, and all the way back to her room she is happy, buoyed by the feeling that she is getting better. The feeling is enough to make her run through the event numerous times with Shae and even get through a meeting with the Queen when she finds out about her progress from Bronn. The Queen tells her that though she had expected Sansa to quit halfway — or not go through with it at all — she says she will not stop her lessons. “There is very little time left before Stannis arrives in the Blackwater and your brother at our gates. Not all men are honourable and when they’ve been fighting and their blood is up, even if they’ve been told not to by their kings and lords, they’ll still come. They’ll still rape. Having your little bow may just save you if the battle goes ill. Gods know that women do most things better than these incompetent men anyhow.”

Sansa nods and agrees, though inside her stomach is rolling with anticipation.

 _They do not fear her_ , she thinks, _but they should._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the battle arrives

Training with her bow was an excellent way to keep away from Joffrey. He was most often at court, basking in the attention of those who attended (or were too afraid to decline), and is therefore far too busy to visit Sansa and mock her. Truthfully, there isn’t much to mock now.

Bonn looks at her with a proud smile and she feels a little teary. In perhaps an event that no one expected, Sansa has become closest to Shae, Bronn and Lord Tyrion out of everyone who visits her.

There are few who have been so kind to her.

Lord Tyrion and his sworn-shield Bronn have been some of her toughest defenders, often using training as an excuse to get her out of court and from underneath the eyes of those who look down on her. It’s also nice to be able to talk with people other than Shae and not feel like she has to guard her tongue - as unwise as that is. They make her feel comfortable, and sometimes, safe. In a place where safety is often fake, she is grateful for the reprieve.

When Bronn moves to put away his own bow, he often practices alongside her, Sansa blinks in surprise.

“Where are you going?” she asks worriedly. As the battle had drawn nearer she had become more tense, keeping watch over her few friends, as though they would somehow disappear or be caught unawares in an attack.

“I’m going to find Lord Tyrion. Podrick should be putting on his armour by now.”

Sansa blinks rapidly, not able to take in what Bronn has just said because surely that would be most unwise…she stills in shock as she realises he was being completely serious. “Lord Tyrion is going to fight?” From the corner of her eye she sees Shae stiffen in surprise, her hands stilling over the mending she has brought outside. Sansa will have to unpick the wonky stitches and do it all herself later but at least Shae is getting the practice in. Perhaps it is not so odd for these Southern handmaidens to not know how to stitch and mend...but then again, Shae is perhaps the oddest handmaiden ever to be in service.

Bronn gives her a reproachful look in response, “Don’t be like that, My Lady. I assure you Lord Tyrion knows where to stick a sword to get the desired effect.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Sansa says hurriedly, looking earnestly at the man. She hopes he will not be offended, or tell Lord Tyrion-- “Please, Lord Stannis won’t arrive for several hours yet and you won’t be doing anything more than waiting around--”

“How did you know about that?” Bronn frowns.

Sansa tries to look sheepish. “I might have accidently overheard a scout report…”

Instead of reprimanding her, Bronn simply laughs. “Ah, accidents are sure to happen.”

This time, her cheeks do flush red and she doesn’t have to pretend to be embarrassed.

Bronn’s grin widens. “Alright My lady, I’ll stay a while longer, but I’ll have to go eventually.”

It’s with a little relief that Bronn picks up his bow again, and this time, they practice quick draw and release. It turns into a game that leaves Sansa’s hands as sore as ever, but some of the tension she’s been feeling all day starts to dissipate. It’s less than an hour when Podrick and Lord Tyrion appear at the edge of the training grounds and walk toward them.

Sansa is sweating, the day is humid and still, like the calm before a storm. She hopes it will hold off until after Stannis Baratheon’s ships have landed. She knocks an arrow, breathes in and out slowly, eyes narrowing in focus. She releases the string and the arrow buries itself in the centre of the target with a _thunk_.

Her skills are improving rather rapidly, and it’s a good job too as they expect the battle to be today. The Lannister scouts having returned with information on the distance of her brother’s army, and now, they are mere hours away.

“Excellent shot, My Lady,” Lord Tyrion compliments her. Sansa smiles and gives a playful curtsy that makes them laugh. “I am afraid, however, that we must depart. Stannis will arrive soon enough and we must be ready.”

Her face drops, turning from healthy pink to ashen in a matter of moments. A terrible thought hits her. _What if they are killed, and King Stannis and my brother fail? Then I will truly be alone…_

“Are you sure you have to go?” Sansa says. She tries to remain calm but perhaps more of her fear is showing than she thought because Lord Tyrion looks at her with a puzzled expression. “Could you not just... _stay here?_ ”

Bronn huffs a short laugh. “‘fraid not, My Lady.” He says, hitching up his sword belt and adjusting the buckle around his hips so it doesn’t slip. He looks at her worried face and gives her a smile, “Though I would much prefer it, duty calls us to the Bay.” he pats her on the shoulder. Sansa is certain he is at least a little fond of her. She knows she has grown rather fond of him since they began their lessons together.

Shae silently goes to collect Sansa’s arrows and tidy up the range before they leave - her dark eyes always watchful flick back and forth between their group and their surroundings. Podrick joins her without complaint, apparently content to be ordered about by Sansa’s handmaiden. Lord Tyrion doesn’t seem to mind.

“I like to think we are friends.” Sansa says lowly when she is sure no one around them can hear. Both Bronn and Tyrion wear a look of surprise but they quickly turn into smiles. Bronn grins at her and he bows. It’s not mocking like some of the others who do it, and she suddenly fears that he will go into battle without knowing - Sansa catches the sleeve of his tunic in her hand, the fabric pulling tightly.

Sansa swallows thickly, her throat parched. The look on her face must be desperate and they begin to suspect something is wrong.

Lord Tyrion looks at her concerned. “My Lady, are you well?”

“You have both been very kind to me. Better than a traitor’s daughter deserves…” she gives them a strained smile, but even that does not reach her eyes. She can feel the worry building in her chest. “Stay to the back.” She says quietly, they lean in to hear better, looking as though they may have misheard her. _“Stay to the back--you must swear it!”_ They study her silently, and it takes several long, painful seconds for them to agree.

Sansa releases Bronn’s tunic and the fabric gapes now, stretched from where she had gripped it so tightly. Sansa composes herself so she looks calm and unruffled once more. She suddenly feels very vulnerable wearing breeches and a shirt, and wishes for the comforting swish of her skirts.

“We must go now.” Tyrion says. His face is polite but his eyes are sharp as ever. He knows she is not joking with her words, and it is more than just a plea for them to be safe. Lord Tyrion is smart enough to see it as the warning it is. Tyrion calls for Podrick who deposits the gathered arrows into the usual barrel and hastens after Tyrion. Bronn pauses, looking at her.

“May the Gods keep you and Lord Tyrion safe from harm.” she says, curtseying.

Bronn nods, but says nothing, looking at her strangely as he bows again and leaves quickly to dress for the battle. Sansa feels relief wash through her as they leave. Sansa is aware of the thoughtful looks they send her way, and share between them, until they are out of sight.

Shae’s pretty face is crumpled in a scowl as she appears at Sansa’s side. “You are planning something.” her maid says with certainty when she holds out the arrows for Sansa to take.

“I am planning to retire to my room and pray for the safety of those fighting.” Sansa says a normal volume. “The godswood would not be safe should Lord Stannis manage to break through.”

“They will hurt you.” Shae says, even quieter this time, as Sansa tucks the arrows into her Quiver and pulls the strap over her shoulder.

For a moment, Sansa lets her careful composure slip away and looks Shae hard in the eyes, “No one will hurt me. I won’t let them.” The mask slips back into place, Sansa is again the meek, retiring maiden, who only looks puzzled and not pleased at Shae’s surprised expression.

When they reach Sansa’s rooms, Shae moves about straightening things on Sansa’s dressing table and smoothing out her bed covers. Sansa can tell something is bothering her. She sets her bow and arrows on a table in the corner of her room and faces her maid.

“What is it?” Sansa asks.

Shae looks up, her face drawn in a worried frown. Her maid hesitates a moment before she reaches into one of the drawers beneath Sansa’s bed and pulls out a satchel and hands it to Sansa.

Cautiously, Sansa unties the fastenings and looks inside...a collection of simple shirts and breeches, a thick woollen dress and warm travelling cloak. A flask, tough biscuits and lump of hard cheese are also there. “Shae...what is this?” Sansa looks up into the stern face of her maid.

“If the battle does not go well, you are to wear the cloak and escape the city. Get to your brother. Someone will come here for you if the Wildfire is as effective as they think.” Sansa can feel tears building in her eyes. “I packed your jewellery and other things you think important--”

Sansa throws herself at her handmaiden and clutches her tightly, her tears building, knowing she’s shaking with a culmination of relief and fear.

“I knew I was right to trust you, Shae, you are a true friend!” Sansa says quietly. She pulls back and her handmaiden gives her an exasperated look. “I _know_ , but actions speak louder than words!”

Shae sighs and tucks the back back into the drawer beneath her bed. “When the battle starts you must find a way to come back here - hide beneath your bed, there is a gap between the drawers at the centre where you will fit and no one would see you.”

“You really have thought of everything,” Sansa says with affection, “But I’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

Shae nods. “I must go, My Lady...there is somewhere I need to be.” Shae turns and moves toward the door, but at the last moment Sansa reaches out and grips her hand. Sansa feels as though a rock has settled in her gut.

“Make sure you stay well away from the Wall, Shae. All that Wilfdire--”

“I will, My Lady. I have no wish to go near the fighting.” Shae says and moves to leave again.

“Promise me,” Sansa insists.

Shae turns back, confused, “I promise.” she says.

Sansa breathes a sigh of relief and lets her maid’s fingers slip from her grip. With one last look over her shoulder and a small smile, Shae is gone.

Sansa hopes this is not the last time she sees her maid. Despite being terrible at most of her duties and rather rude and wily at times, Sansa rather likes her.

Sansa changes from her clothes with quick efficiency and slips on a clean dress. It’s only a moment later that Sansa hears a knock on her door. It’s odd, she thinks, but perhaps Shae has forgotten something? Sansa opens the door, expecting Shae, and sees Ser Meryn there instead. She is too stunned to react as he snatches her by the arm and drags her to the Queen.

Her bow and arrows lay forgotten on the table.

*****

By the Gods, she had been so stupid!

She should have expected a guard to be there. Did she honestly think that the ladies were going to sit locked up in a room with no one to guard them inside or out? She could almost hear the Hound’s rasping laugh in her head.

_Silly little bird…_

Gods, they would never let her out now the battle was so close to beginning; she could see Stannis’ fleet of ships on the horizon through the small slim windows. Her brother’s army she could not, though she knew they would be there too, torches bobbing in the dark as they marched onward toward the gates.

“Please, Your Grace!” Sansa begs. It really is her only chance. It’s not seemly for her to act this way but she needs to get out of the room now. Her brother and King Stannis are going to take the city and Ser Ilyn Payne is going to run them all through with his sword when they do. “Please let me fetch my bow!”

The Queen looks at Sansa over her goblet with slightly blurry eyes. “Careless of you, Little dove.” She takes another long drink of wine and turns away as though to speak to another of the terrified ladies that are cooped up in here.

“Your Grace!” Sansa’s voice is high and terrified; she can’t help the way her hands tremble either. She feels trapped and she can’t breathe--she needs to leave! Again she pleads her case - she _must_ go and fetch her bow and arrows - she will be ever so quick and return swiftly once she has collected them!

The Queen has another drink, pretending to ignore Sansa, but she can see it is not so. The Queen’s hand grips her goblet tighter with each word Sansa speaks and her smile becomes even more pinched and false. Finally it disappears completely.

Cercei turns to her with narrowed eyes and snaps at her. “Oh stop your whining you impudent little brat - go on then - hurry back while you still can.”

Sansa bolts up without a word, curtseying clumsily and shoots for the door. Ser Ilyn glares down at her, refusing to move until Cercei orders him to step aside. He does so with great reluctance and Sansa slips through the door, waiting until she is out of view before she breaks into a run, pushing herself as fast as she can to reach her chambers on time.

Time is precious, and she has very little left.

*****

Robb can’t help the way his heart beats madly against his ribs. The rush of blood is so loud in his ears that he almost misses what Lord Renly is saying.

“--don’t look so nervous.”

How can he not? Robbs hair is stuck to the back of his neck with sweat and he has dark circles hanging beneath his worried eyes. There is a lot resting on the fate of this battle, not only the lives of his men and himself, but his two sisters. He wonders how they have grown and whether they will recognise him - he looks different too.

Ser Loras, forever by Lord Renly’s side, nudges his horse to slip between Lord Renly and himself. Like Lord Renly, Loras doesn’t seem worried in the least, he can see a glint in both of their eyes, and he thinks they are, dare he say it, _excited_ for the battle. Robb can’t see anything exciting about fighting in a war where one moment you could be fighting for your life and the lives of your sisters and then...dead.

“Like My Lord said, don’t worry. Just be quick and don’t drop your sword!”

The two laugh like it is some hilarious joke but Robb feels as though there are stones settling in his stomach. His armour feels heavy and cumbersome and limbs like water. How is he meant to fight when he feels so ill prepared?

As they ride, and the rest of their army marches behind them, Robb notes that Renly and Loras keep up their cheerful chatter while he only feels a growing sickness settle over him.

“Trust me, My Lord, you will not die today, nor tomorrow.” Renly says when he realises that Robb has barely said two words to them and for all their chatter, actually looks worse - his complexion rather pale. “Your men are loyal and I am sure they would gladly die for you, so there is little to worry about--”

Robb snaps his head around to look Lord Renly in the face. His expression must be quite fierce because Renly seems to recoil just a little.

“It is not myself I worry about. It never has been.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you've waited a rather long time for this to update, but just so you know, this fic will now be my main focus until it is finished. I've completed the planning and so now I just need to write it! Definitely excited to write more of this for you!
> 
> Edits have been made to this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa puts her plan into action

The corridors are all deserted, for this Sansa is incredibly grateful, and her soft slippered feet make barely a sound on the stone floors. Sansa wishes she was in breeches. They are much easier to run in.

From the corner of her eye as she runs, she can see barrels beginning to be piled up at the wall, ready to be poured into the blackwater, sent over the wall in catapults or loaded onto the ship they’re preparing. The ship _cannot_ be allowed to sail.

Sansa hitches up her skirts and runs faster than she has ever run in her life. There is so little time left before her brother reaches the gates and Stannis the Blackwater that she must move quickly if she is to be there on time.

When she reaches her room, Sansa practically throws herself through the door, tearing at the laces of her dress and yanking it up and over her head, her slip quickly following her dress into the bottom of her wardrobe.

Breeches are far more practical and much easier to move in - they’re hastily pulled out and put on, her hands making terrible knots in the laces as she secures them. A shirt comes next, half the buttons are in the wrong holes but she’s past caring. Next, over the top of her clothes comes a roughspun cloak she’d stolen from one of the groundsmen who spent far too much time in the Keep’s kitchens. He had been too interested in the busty cook to see her snatch the cloak from the peg and hurry away again. It had been difficult - even more so finding maids clothes and covering her hair to get said cloak. Not to mention avoiding guards and servants who might recognise her...

There is no delay in her movements. Everything has been planned out to the smallest detail and so the next part of her plan is easy enough.

She pulls down a dress she had chosen earlier. A gift from the queen, now far too small, and begins tearing the fabric along the seams. It’s rather poetic, Sansa thinks as she tears the dress, ripping the fabric into three strips, her arms straining. There is no time to feel remorseful as she throws the remains of the once pretty dress into the bottom of her wardrobe.

Sansa rushes over to the corner of her room and pulls down the lantern strung there and hurries back to the table where her arrows lay. She opens up the bottom of the lantern to get to the oil and quickly snatches up the strips of cloth, pushing them in and out of the oil until all the strip is coated. Sansa wraps the strips tightly around the arrow heads, leaving the tip free, and knots them tightly. Her hands are covered in oil and shaking from the nerves and adrenaline that courses through her veins.

Not enough time...not enough time…

She manages three arrows before she gives in, stuffing them into her quiver. If she needs more than three arrows she is sure to die.

Hands still sticky with oil she snatches up her bow and quiver of arrows and slips out the door of her room, running quickly down the corridor to the sheltered balcony that overlooks the bay.

To keep her plans secret, Sansa hasn’t been able to prepare anything other than the plan for tonight - The Queen, Varys and even Littlefinger have spies all over the place and she couldn’t risk anything getting out.

Her head would have joined her father’s atop the walls of the Red Keep.

Though her plan was simple, it has taken more time than she would like, and as she runs she can see the barrels are almost piled halfway up the outer wall and are now being slowly transferred to an empty waiting ship.

It feels as though there is a direwolf pressing on her chest, she can barely breathe!

Thankfully there is no one in the corridors to question the cloaked figure hurtling down the halls - they are all either by the wall organising the barrels or arming the peasants they have roped in to fight.

Sansa had heard some speculation about the Lannisters attempting to charm the Tyrells away from the Baratheons, Margaery Tyrell imparticular, but they were not so stupid to back the losing side. It was said that Tywin Lannister was furious.

The Lannister forces were nothing to sniff at and Lord Tywin was a sound military tactician, but Sansa had heard it said that even he was worried about Stannis Baratheon. Their forces were nothing compared to the combined might of the North, Baratheons and Tyrells.

Sansa reaches the balcony, panting, head swimming and eyes blurring a little at the corners. The night is ever so hot and she is sweating beneath her layers, the roughspun cloak is good for concealment but far too warm on such a night.

The night will be even warmer soon.

The balcony she had chosen is easily concealed from the corridor and the Bay below, shrouded in darkness with only a single sconce fixed to the wall just above her head. It is the perfect place to carry out her plan.

Sansa sends a prayer up to the Gods at what she is about to do.

*****

The night is warm and the waters of Blackwater Bay are calm, a sure contrast to what they will be soon enough. Stannis looks at his fleet and allows himself a grim twitch of his jaw - what Davos would surely call a smile.

These are his Bannermen, he will lead them to victory, despite the doubts of Lady Melisandre. She had wanted to join him, but she and his wife and daughter will be much safer on Dragonstone than aboard his ships. Should, somehow, the battle go ill, they will be safer with part of the Florent forces than in a warzone. Lady Melisandre had been even so bold to suggest Shireen join him. As if he would be stupid enough to risk his only heir!

Through his spyglass he can see the Lannister forces swarming atop the wall. They have catapults and archers everywhere. And then...is that...it is. Tywin Lannister has indeed shown his face after all. Stannis was looking forward to meeting the Old Lion on the field.

Stannis’ other hand grips the handle of Lightbringer tighter and he feels the warm pulse of heat beneath his hand.

To those who looked upon their king they would see a slight glow about his form and feel a mixture of both awe and fear.

*****

The ships are getting closer now and when she turns her head and peeks around the stone wall she is sheltered by, she can see the torches of her brother’s army as they come closer. It’s now or never. Too close and her brother’s army could be injured too.

Sansa’s hand shakes as she lines up the first arrow on her bow and tips the cloth wrapped arrowhead into the flames to light it. With a deep breath in, she pulls back the string and touches the feathers at the end of the arrow to the corner of her lips.

She aims. She shoots…she misses.

The arrow skitters across the tiled roof of a low building and continues to burn, a small pinprick of light against the shadows.

Sansa fumbles for her second arrow as panic begins to rise in her. What if someone has seen already? What if she cannot do it and she is discovered? Without her, the armies at the gates of Kings Landing do not know what they face!

She lights the second arrow and her hand shakes as she pulls back the bowstring. She had told Shae no one would ever hurt her again. That she would not let them. It would be a lie if she failed now.

Holding her breath once more, Sansa again aims at the pile of barrels…the arrow shoots through the air. She does not hit the barrels, nor the roof, but a soldier.

The arrow buries itself in his shoulder just underneath his armour which for all that it shines and seems to cover him from head to toe doesn’t manage to prevent this injury.  She hears him cry out as he goes down, those around him already moving to protect him. The battle has not even started and already Kings Landing is under attack. It has come from somewhere wholly unexpected - from the inside.

As he cries out, more people around him notice and the shouting begins. More soldiers swarm around on the ground, calculating from which direction the arrow cam and already some are spreading out to look for the perpetrator - her.

Sansa’s heart picks up speed as she grabs her final arrow and lights it, her fingers clumsily setting it against her bow. The oil on her fingers catches and she gasps lowly, hissing at the pain, but she cannot waste time now that she has made such a stupid mistake. She hears someone cry out from below - they can see the light of her arrow against the darkness of the balcony.

She cannot fail. It is her last cloth-wrapped arrow. It is the last chance to save her family...and herself.

She breathes in, and then, as she breathes out, slowly, she hears the distant clank of armoured footsteps and knows she does not have time to waste.

Sansa lets her third and final arrow fly.

There is shouting from down below, garbled and filled with fear. The world seems to be moving in slow motion as her flaming arrow sails through the air, straight toward her target...

The world explodes in a violent green heat that shoves her back against the stone with a force that leaves her gasping. Everything is green. The buildings, the sky the air.

She turns her head to look out over the blackwater, through the bars of the balcony railings to see a roiling smoking cloud twisting up and forming in the sky, sparks, tongues of flame and flares shoot out from the centre of the blaze and rain down on the city beneath it. Then she hears the screams. Hundreds of them. Wailing, gasping, crying, yelling.  _Gods forgive her, it is awful._ She has to get away.

It feels as though she’s moving through mud and she can’t make herself rise. It’s unbearably hot, even here in the keep where she is (for now) far enough away to not be affected by the flames. She can still feel the heat and it burns her face.

She wonders, too late, whether the Wildfire can actually be contained or if it will spread to the Red Keep. She realises she cannot hear the footsteps anymore over the roar of the flames and smoke that rises higher and higher in the air, threatening to engulf the city rather than just the outer wall.

A strong gust of wind blows the smoke toward her and the flames dance inward. Choking, Sansa finally pushes herself to her feet and staggers along the wall. She must reach her room quickly now that they know what she has done. She picks up her pace, and then again, faster, when she realises she can hear the footsteps resuming. Thank the Gods she is not wearing a dress.

Her breath comes in short sharp pants and her vision is darkening at the edges, but even then she keeps running. The corridors will soon be swarming with guards ready to take her head - the door to her room comes into view, but there is no time to be relieved. She can hear the clank of armoured feet louder now.

Sansa rushes into her room, out of breath and terrified, for the second time that night. She slings her bow and quiver beneath the table. They will be no use to her now. She has to hide and hide well if she wishes to live. Her brothers army have a sure victory now that the Lannister’s secret weapon has been destroyed. Most of their forces had been by the outer wall when the blast had hit. It’s very unlikely that the battle will last very long - she is sure most of the effort will go toward putting out the blaze.

She hopes the Lannisters pay for what they’ve done. Even if she does not live long enough to see it - the Wildfire may yet take the Red Keep.

Sansa pulls back the hood of her cloak, still sweating terribly, and is about to move to her hiding place when she feels the hairs rise on the back of her neck - she spins quickly to find that she is not alone.

_“Hello, Sweetling.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 has been edited so you might want to go back and read the bit where Sansa leaves the training grounds.
> 
> If you've got two notifications for an upload of this chapter it's because I stupidly clicked post without preview and there were a tonne of mistakes in there.


	4. Chapter 4

Their ships halt their race toward the beach, now only carried by the current toward it.

Stannis and his men watch in stunned silence as chunks of masonry are flung into the sky, onto the beach and into the water from the force of the blast. They can already hear the screams of the men who had been caught in the blast.

They had probably meant to set fire to his own ships - he can imagine the disaster that would be and for a moment he cannot breathe. Many of his ships would have been taken out in the blast - perhaps even half. He can imagine his men burning and screaming and diving into the water...then he thinks of his brother. His head whips around to search them out, their own lights are still lit but are now stationary, no longer marching, just as he too is waiting.

Stannis wonders whether this is some sort of diversion but no other attack comes. Only men, like torches themselves, screaming, emerge from the wreckage, allowed onto the beach by the enormous hole in the outer wall so they can throw themselves into the sea. it does not help. The fire continues to burn.

It seems the Lannisters had been incompetent and set it ablaze themselves, or, perhaps this God of Fire really was on his side. However, he wanted to Rule Kings Landing, not burn it to the ground.

“Your Grace?” Davos says dazedly to him, his eyes still locked on the roaring green flames in front of them. HIs men are eerily quiet amidst the screams and wails of those who had been closest to the store of Wildfire. It has struck them all that this could have been their fate. “What do we do?” he asks.

Stannis takes in a lungful of hot air. He can almost taste the ash from here. “What we always planned to do...” He says with a feeling that builds the longer the fire burns. “We take the city.” Stannis removes Lightbringer from its sheath and holds the glowing blade above his head, the light around it matching the sickly green glow of the fire that has captured the outer walls of Kings Landing. Every head turns toward him, showing awe and fear and determination. The Lannister’s had intended to burn them. They would pay.

“OURS IS THE FURY!”

His men roar with him and his fleet surges forward once more. The Iron Throne will be his.

It is his duty.

*****

Seeing the torrent of green fire hurled upward toward the sky, the blast sending them stumbling back a step, Robb feels more like a boy than ever - even from here he can feel the heat. The host stops, every man staring at the horror that seems to unfold before their eyes.

So many men had been standing atop that wall when the explosion hit, surely taking out much of the Lannister forces and practically ensuring their victory...but all he can think of are his sisters.

Sansa is in there. And Arya.

What if the fire spreads to the keep?

What if it reaches them before he can?

What if they cannot escape?

Robb sees Renly look over to Stannis’ fleet, they too have paused a moment. He’s about to ask what they should do but it isn’t long before they hear the roar of Stannis’ men and they surge forward once more toward the beach.

Robb and Renly exchange a look and nod to each other, drawing their swords and holding them toward the sky. The command is given and they charge forward, their formations almost not needed now their victory is almost assured.

He will find his sisters, Robb swears to himself. He will save them like he couldn’t save their father.

*****

Sansa feels her heart give a sickening jerk as her eyes settle on Petyr Baelish. He’s dressed in dark coloured travelling clothes and sitting at the side of her bed, looking as put together and calm as though there was not a battle raging outside their walls.

“My Lord!” She says, stunned, “What are you doing here?” Honestly, of all the people she had expected to see, he would have been the last person to come to mind.

He stands quickly, smiling and looking hopefully at her face. “I’ve come to rescue you, sweetling” he says, arms out wide as though he half expects her to throw herself into them in relief.

“Rescue me?” The words taste strange on her lips. It has been a long time since she thought of rescue. Once the thought would have thrilled her - a daring rescue of a fair maiden from a horrible situation by a handsome and noble knight, but now...not so much. Not when she’d decided that the only person who was going to save Sansa Stark was Sansa Stark.

He is suddenly rather close, clasping her hand with both of his own and holding them rather tightly. “Yes, rescue you! I am going to take you to your Lady Mother and Brother--”

Sansa pulls away from his hand with some effort. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” He asks, his look turns from hopeful to just a touch patronising. “Surely you don’t think they’re going to win, Sweetling -- the Lannisters have been storing Wildfire and I am sure they’ve set fire to the bay by now, it’s the light you see…” He thinks her the naive little girl who arrived excited to be in the capital, betrothed to a Prince, and whose head was full of songs. She can smell the mint on his breath as he speaks and she wants to be sick.

It’s obvious the Wildfire has been set alight by the terrible green tinge her room has taken on but Sansa quickly realises that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that it’s not the Blackwater that’s burning but the city instead - the outer wall melted or blown to bits and perhaps the fire has even reached the first row of houses by now. For once, Petyr Baelish doesn't seem to know everything and that means he doesn’t know it was her either.

“I’m staying here, Lord Baelish.” Sansa looks at him and she doesn’t know what he sees there but he takes a step closer and puts his hands on her shoulders and squeezes them.

“You don’t need to pretend anymore, Sansa.” The use of her given name makes her stiffen. “I can keep you safe. I have guards to help us get out of the city and away from the fighting safely.”

There’s something about his eyes that she doesn’t like and a little voice in the back of her mind remembers that her father had distrusted him. Perhaps she should not trust him either?

“I’m not going.” She says and her voice is stronger this time. “My brother will come for me and Stannis Baratheon will take the Iron Throne from the Lannisters, and then I will go back to Winterfell with mother.”

Baelish sighs and looks at her with pity. “I was afraid I was going to have to do this.” He steps away from her and waves his hand. Two guards step out from the shadows, armoured and strong. She hadn’t even noticed they were there.

Sansa feels fear wrap around her spine and she steps back, her head whipping around as she looks for an escape as the guards come closer.

“What are you doing?” She yells when one reaches out to grab her. She ducks underneath his hand but her cloak is grabbed by the other one. She releases the clasp and runs behind the table where she had thrown her bow and snatches it up quickly, reach for an arrow. Sansa knocks an arrow and pulls back the string, aiming at one guard to the other. “I’ll shoot, don’t think I won’t!” Her hands are shaking but the look in her eyes is fierce and she thinks they can see it too. Though she has become rather good with her bow, it won’t save her now, not when there’s three of them.

“You’ll hurt yourself, Sweetling, put it down and come with us. Surely you don’t want the Lannisters to find you’re missing and come looking--”

Sansa releases her arrow, Baelish’s eyes go wide as it soars towards the guard to his right, but at the last second he ducks and the guards lunge at her. The arrow shoots straight through a patterned vase that sends shards flying everywhere while she is tackled to the ground, her bow is torn from her and thrown to the other side of the room, skittering across the floor to rest beneath a set of drawers.

“Get off me!” she struggles in their grip, feeling tears of frustration start to prick her eyes when their grip remains firm. Perhaps she should have asked the queen for lessons on how to use a sword and dagger after all. The guards grab her arms tight enough to leave bruises.

“Don’t struggle!” Baelish orders as he gets to his feet, brushing down his cloak, and then, as she takes a deep breath in, she sees the alarm on his face.

Sansa screams as loud as she can. It’s high and shrill and she struggles harder when she feels the guards wince and loosen their grip, probably desperate to stick their fingers in their ears.

“For God’s sake, gag her!” Baelish orders as he winces at the sound and almost as soon as he’d said it a rough strip of material is balled up and stuffed in her mouth almost causing her to choke. She can still fight them though...until they bind her arms and legs. Sansa glares daggers at them all as they do so, smirking when she manages to punch one of them in the nose, feeling it crunch as she does so. The pain in her hand is worth it.

The guard only growls at her and ties the binding tighter, shoving her roughly into the chest of the other who picks her up and slings her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

Now, Sansa truly begins to panic. There is of course a chance that Lord Baelish will take her to her mother and brother, but Sansa doubts it now, he had quickly turned nasty.

“See?” Baelish says as he comes to stand behind the guard, his fingers lightly touching her chin to tilt her head up so she would look him in the eye. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

As unladylike as it is Sansa wants to claw at his stupid smirking face. She wants to spit at him.

Her eyes narrow further and Baelish’s face becomes pinched with anger. He’d expected her happy, grateful, relieved to be rescued and welcomed as a hero though it was certainly a far cry from what he got.

It was quite nice to be able to defy someone’s expectations for once instead of meeting them.

Baelish lets her go suddenly and her chin drops back against the armour sharply.

“We need to leave--”

Just as Sansa goes limp, preparing to struggle with all she’s got, the door is thrown open and slams against the wall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been writing By My Hand but I'm in the middle of moving all my documents to Google Drive and when I looked at All is Aglow I realised that this chapter was almost done and just needed a bit of polishing :)


	5. Chapter 5

Sansa’s head shoots up and her Tully Blue eyes meet the sharp gaze of The Hound. The burn scars that cover the left side of his face stand out in livid detail, tinged green from the wildfire that colours the world outside. He’s covered in blood and ash and the corner of his cloak seems to be smoking but other than that, none of the blood seems to be his. Sansa feels the guard stiffen beneath her and he’s about to put her down she can tell, whether to make sure she doesn’t get hurt before they cart her off, or because he’s about to run away himself.

The Hound at her door is a terrifying image to be sure.

Before she can fully feel the wave of relief that assaults her at his presence, The Hound is plunging his sword into the guards with a snarl and Sansa falls to the floor. Without hesitation, and pushing away the sharp pains, Sansa forces herself over to the corner of the room so she’s out of the way as The Hound advances on Baelish.

Littlefinger scuttles back, his eyes on the Hound as he speaks, voice a little higher than normal with panic.

“Clegane! Don’t do anything foolish - the Lannisters!”

“The Lannisters are dead” he spits and from where she sits she can see a smirk on his face.

“Dead? How can that be?” Littlefinger breathes.

“Wildfire you ignorant shite! And now the Lannister’s are gone, I’m going to do what I’ve always wanted.” Both men’s eyes flicker over to where she’s sitting in the corner and Sansa pauses in her task. She’d grabbed one of her arrows from the floor and was slowly trying to cut through the binding--

Quick as a flash, Littlefinger buries a dagger into The Hound’s side. Sansa’s gasp is covered up by his grunt though other than a small wince it doesn’t seem to have any effect, much to Littlefinger’s unease.

“One little dagger isn’t going to stop me, Littlefucker.” he removes the dagger with barely a wince and tosses it out of reach. Then, with one hand he grabs Littlefinger around the throat and _squeezes_. “I’m going to kill you and enjoy it.” Baelish is slowly turning red and his eyes are bulging, his hands clawing ineffectively at the Hound’s grip on his throat. The man could have been made of stone for all the good Littlefinger’s nails did against his skin. “Then I’m going to kill the whoreson who sought to light the city on fire instead of Stannis’ fleet…” had there been any change in Littlefinger’s expression, other than slowly turning blue, Sansa wouldn’t have been able to see it. He’s already gasping for air and his eyes are open as wide as they can go.”And then I’m going to find my brother and kill him too.”

The Hound drops Baelish to the floor and he lays there, the man’s knees giving out from underneath him and he gasps like a fish out of water, chest heaving for breath and spit running from the corner of his mouth. He seems unable to get to his feet or get away.

The Hound kicks him onto his back with his boot and raises his sword above his head.

“I-I--”

Before the thin man has even managed to get a word out of his open mouth, The Hound grins and thrusts it through Baelish’s chest, meeting the stone floor with a _crack_.

It’s hard to look away as his blood slowly spreads out in a pool beneath him, mixing with that of the guards. It happens so fast that it barely registers with Sansa, only becoming aware that she’s managed to cut through her hand instead of the fabric by the sting of pain that shoots through her wrist. She should be horrified, but all she can feel is relief.

Sansa realises she’s shaking as the Hound wipes his sword on Baelish’s body and turns his attention to her.

The Hound kneels down in front of her and pulls the gag from her mouth, and uses a small dagger to cut her bindings. Her hands and feet tingle from the release of the ties and she grits her teeth and rubs them with shaking hands to get the blood flow back, wiping her wrist on her breeches.

“Are you hurt, Little Bird?” The Hound says. It’s perhaps the softest he’s ever spoken to her and for a brief moment she wants to give all control, all responsibility, all worries about her _protection_ to someone else. But that fades. And she sucks in a deep breath. She needs to be strong.

Sansa goes to say thank-you but all that comes out is a choked sob and she realises that she’s crying. He looks uncomfortable at her tears and Sansa realises she can still hear people screaming faintly from her open window and it makes her feel worse, her breathing coming in short, sharp bursts. The Hound looks toward the window and then back at her. Is that fear she sees in his eyes?

“Little Bird?”

“Not hurt,” she croaks eventually, rubbing at her eyes with the corner of her sleeve, sniffing. She had just promised to be strong, crying was not part of that. She looks him over with red puffy eyes, kneeling before her, waiting hesitantly and watching her warily, through the ash and blood she remembers he’s injured. “Your side--you need a Maester.”

“Just a pinprick.” He says gruffly, pressing a hand where the wound was with a grunt. His hand comes away covered in blood.

*****

“Got any wine?”

Sansa shakes her head until she realises he can’t see her and croaks a “ _no_ ”. She’s under the bed, safely tucked away in the space between her drawers with her satchel of provisions, desperately trying to ignore the roar of battle that filters through her open window. She can’t close it now.

The Hound had offered to get her out of the city and to her brother’s camp but Sansa had refused, asking him whether Lord Tyrion or Bronn or Shae had asked him to come and find her.

“No.” He says, and she thinks he sounds a little confused. “Haven’t spoken to any of them.”

Sansa feels a sickening disappointment settle in her stomach. Shae had said someone would be here for her if the battle goes ill - though the battle going ill would mean if the Lannisters won surely?

“Then why were you so close to my room to help me get away from...them.”

Between the floor and the bottom of the drawers there is a gap about the width of her fingernail, which, if she lays her head flat on the floor, she can see the Hound’s boots as he walks about. And the bodies.

“Had to find out who decided to light the barrels, didn’t I?” He growls.

The Hound’s boots pause a moment before she sees his hands come into view and to her surprise, and disgust, he grabs the arms of the guards and drags them across her floor to the window...and chucks them out of it.

Sansa is holding her breath, trying not to be sick as The Hound drags Littlefinger, eyes open and head lolling loosely to the side, over to the window and does the same with his body. She hears the thud from outside as his body hits the ground.

“Though if it wasn’t for the whoreson who shot The King I might still be outside burning with the rest of them.”

“The King?” Sansa asks, voice panicked. _Had Lord Stannis been injured? Wait a moment, he would have been too far out and The Hound was talking about the archer...that meant…_ ”Joffrey?”

"Might have some burns, but I think he got away in time. Practically demanded to be taken to the Healing Houses. Could hear him shouting as I went to find the archer." The Hound huffs, “You would have thought he was being murdered the amount the boy screamed.” Sansa can barely hear past the rush of blood in her ears. She’d _shot_ Joffrey! And though he still lived, he was injured. Sansa stifles a hysterical giggle behind her hand as the Hound carries on talking, “Only went in his bloody shoulder…”

When she’s calmed down enough to speak normally Sansa asks why he said that the Lannister's were dead if Joffrey still lived.

"Only the most important ones. Without Tywin, they're nothing."

Sansa is reminded by a particularly loud yell that the battle, now strongly in her brother’s and King Stannis’ favour, means the Hound is no longer safe. Not that he seems to realise it. Or just chooses not to. He drags a sheet off her bed and dumps it on the floor, using his boot to drag it about the trail the bodies had left and mop up the blood.

“You need to leave.” She says quietly from her hiding place. “When Stannis has secured the city--”

“Are you leaving?” he interrupts. He stills at his task, boot pressed firmly into the sheet that is slowly turning red.

“No, but I can’t guarantee your safety.”

The Hound makes a rasping sound that _almost_ sounds like a laugh. “ _My safety_ , she says” he mutters to himself. “No bugger ever gave a rats arse about my safety. I’m staying, Little Bird and if anyone comes to hurt you, I’ll kill ‘em.”

Sansa’s eyes go wide and she realises this is as much of an oath as she’s ever going to get from Sandor Clegane.

“You’re still injured.” she reminds him, even though she’d offered him an old dress to tear and turn into bandages.

“I can still fight.”

Sansa can’t quite argue with that.

“You are one of the few who have been kind to me throughout my time in King's Landing and I would save you if I could—“ Footsteps interrupt her words and the Hound quickly tosses the bloodied sheet somewhere unseen.

“Stay quiet.” he orders and Sansa does as she is bid. No one must know she is here, if they do she is trapped. The screams of the men outside seem to get louder and the heavy tread of armoured feet stop outside her door. She sees the Hound wrench open the door, sword in hand, and there’s a brief start of surprise from the newcomer. They exchange low words that Sansa cannot decipher until the one at the door leaves and Sandor moves to sit, and then lay, back on her bed.

“I meant what I said, Little Bird.” he says quietly, “if anyone hurts you I’ll kill them. Though once I’ve got a hold of that buggering whoreson who thought to light the city on fire my head will be on a pike soon enough. No doubt your Brother and Stannis will want to Knight him.”

Sansa says nothing and stays quiet beneath the bed, pulling her bag of supplies close to rest her head upon while they wait. She stays still for hours, not daring to move, though she hears the Hound snoring on her bed soon enough. At points she thinks she can hear the yelling die down and no one rushes past her room anymore. Her eyes droop closed and eventually she falls into a fitful sleep.

Sansa wakes to the sound of the door crashing open, the clash of steel and shouting. Through the gap beneath the bed frame and the floor she sees half a dozen feet, all armoured and she hears them shouting - The Hound too. They wrestle him and somehow manage to relieve him of his sword and push him to the floor, his face pressed into the stone. He’s facing her, his scarred side pressed against the stone and their eyes meet, she is sure he can see the fear in her eyes. He fights all the harder and it takes all six of the guards to restrain him as they charge him with desertion. They cuff his hands behind his back and chain his ankles.

Sansa tries not to breathe too loudly but the grit and dust from the floor coats her mouth as she tries to stifle her panicked breathing and she almost chokes. Sansa covers her mouth tightly with her hand, breathing through her nose, and watches as they drag him away through the door, kicking and cursing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for this because I've decided to finish this one first (as I know where it's going and everything is planned out - some chapters have already been written too so despite me working almost every day until september updates won't be too far apart...I hope!) 
> 
> Really hope you're enjoying it! I look forward to hear what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

The sun rises in the morning and Sansa wakes beneath her bed, stiff and disorientated. She wonders where she is, breathing quickening as she feels her way around in the small stuffy space. For a terrible moment she thinks she’s dead, or having been buried alive, but then she feels the satchel underneath her head and she stills, limbs going boneless in relief as she remembers. She’s not dead. She’s alive and safe.

Well, at least for now.

Sansa thinks over the battle, the Wildfire, Littlefinger and the Hound and wonders whether a side has won yet, or whether they’re still struggling against one another for the right to take the Iron Throne. She listens for any sound she can make out but beyond her door the corridor is silent and still. Sansa listens harder and turns her head to the left to pay attention to the sounds coming from her open window. Faint screams and shouts filter through and she realises they must still be fighting, or at least still trying to put the fire out.

How does one put out Wildfire anyway? Is such a thing possible?

Other than The Hound being dragged out of her room for desertion there has been no clue or word as to how the battle has gone. Sansa wonders where they’ve taken The Hound and what they’ll do to him if he can’t escape the guards somehow. For him to be charged with Desertion, that meant that the Lannisters had won or were winning...but it can’t be - the wildfire had surely dealt severe enough damage that it would make taking the city almost easy. Though if it continued to burn and spread more than anyone had expected _that_ would make it difficult for both sides.

Sansa closes her eyes tightly and tries to quiet her breathing which has become erratic at the thought of the Lannisters winning even after everything she’d done. She would _still be trapped_...perhaps she should have tried to leave with The Hound, perhaps make it to her brother’s camp and then return to the city once King Stannis had taken it? Even then, if they didn’t take Kings Landing she’d still be _free_.

Questions buzz around in her mind like irritated bees as she thinks about the fate of the people she cares about. She wonders whether Lord Tyrion and Bronn and Shae are safe and where they are: did they follow her advice? Did they escape the battle and find somewhere to wait? And what of her brother?

She thinks of her mother, probably pacing restlessly back at her Brother’s camp, waiting for news of herself. And Arya. They don’t know that her sister has been gone from Kings Landing since her father…

Sansa bites down on the inside of her cheek to keep herself from tearing up. No good would come of it now and so to cheer herself up, she thinks of Arya. Odd, that the thought of Arya brought a smile to her face now when before it would only make her roll her eyes and sigh. She imagines her wild little Sister, Needle in hand, wandering about Westeros and thriving. Making her way North and toward home? Or not...she is most likely far far away by now. perhaps lost. Perhaps lonely. But definitely alive. Arya is too stubborn to just lay down and accept her fate which was probably why she was out roaming Westeros (or perhaps beyond) and not trapped here like Sansa is. _Arya always had been much better at fending for herself_ , Sansa thinks, _should I see her again I will make more effort to understand her._

Now Sansa could see the merit in being able to fight and ride and shoot like all the boys were taught to do. If only she’d tried to be a little more like her sister and take part in the lessons they gave her...how mother would have disapproved too--

Sansa is annoyed to find some tears have escaped her notice, tickling her cheeks, and wipes them away angrily with the back of her hand. She thinks of something else. Anything. Trying to quell the burning at the back of her throat. Surely someone will come looking for her soon? The colours they wore or the way they spoke would then reveal the outcome of the battle, if she could see or hear them speak at all and then she could reveal herself. Should they be on the right side of course.

Carefully drawing out tough biscuit and the skin of water stored there to nibble on, Sansa settles down in her hiding space to wait.

Two hours later, a trio of guards enter her room, calling out to her. She stills, hoping to recognise the accents or the colours of the cloaks but they’re unfamiliar to her and she stays silent, watching and waiting.

When she does not reply they start searching through her things. They look through her wardrobe, the water closet and through her drawers. Sansa feels her face heat with embarrassment and rage when they root through her underthings and hold them up for each other to look at, laughing and telling each other how soft they are. Sansa glares angrily at them from her hiding space, and they must feel her eyes on them because they put them down quickly after that and continue their search. For what, Sansa doesn’t know, because they look in places she cannot possibly hide, and yet they take nothing either. It’s the most torturous hour out of the lot because they speak little, and say nothing that gives her any clues as to who the battle favours nor whom they support.

When they leave, her room looking like the scene of a robbery, they have given away no hints to their allegiance, other than they’re looking for her, and truthfully that could be either side. Sansa quietly checks her supplies and settles in to wait. Someone will come. Stannis Baratheon and her brother have come to free her, and the Lannisters want to keep her from them. Whoever wins will look for her, she just hopes it’s the right side.

*****

Sansa isn’t quite sure how long she lays beneath her bed, breathing in the dust and dirt from the floor, tracing the whorls and marks in the planks with her finger and listening tensely for any sound outside that might indicate who has won the battle, but eventually, she leaves the safety of her bed. Not to go looking for the outcome, that would certainly mean a sword in her side, but to make water.

Her bladder has been stinging painfully, fit to burst ever since the morning after the battle began and now for fear of wetting herself, she manoeuvres herself out from between the drawers and takes in a sweet breath of fresh air. She can’t stay out for long, another set of guards had been back since the first group had left and she doesn’t know when either party will be back again.

Sansa keeps low to the floor, out of sight of the window, and crawls over to the water closet where she hurriedly crouches over the chamber pot. It’s nothing more than an empty cupboard really, dark without a candle, and the door pulled almost closed so she can see what she’s doing by the slither of light that slips through the gap.

The sensation is on par with eating lemon cakes because she feels such sweet relief as the pressure of her full bladder eases even though she’s crouching rather awkwardly above it - a more ladylike position required more light and time.

After finishing her business Sansa is just drawing up her small clothes and about to crawl back toward her bed when she hears voices and the click of the latch on her door.

She stills, heart in her throat and eyes wide as two people enter her room, another two stop outside the door. Guards possibly. The two in the room walk about and say nothing, she can’t see them yet but she knows from their steps that one is wearing armour and the other soft slippers. A Lady and a Knight then.

By the Gods she hopes it is not Queen Cercei and Kings Guard. The image of Ser Ilyn Payne standing there beside Cercei, pretending to be grieving, as she ordered Ser Ilyn Payne to chop of her head and place it upon the battlements where her fathers had been--

*****

There’s blood in his hair and on his clothes and at some point Robb is sure some has been in his mouth, though whether it’s from the men he’s killed or from his sore and bitten tongue he isn’t quite sure.

They’ve been weaving their way through the labyrinthine streets for what seems an age, yet can only have been more than an hour when they come across another pocket of Lannister resistance. They fight harder and faster, clearly better trained than those they’d faced on the outskirts of the city, and while Robb scores several cuts to his opponent, his guards similarly engaged, Robb feels the cut of a sword slash at his face and a rush of blood obscures one eye.

To the surprise of his opponent, he doesn’t go down, doesn’t get distracted, doesn’t pause to wipe it away so he can see through the crimson that obscures his view. Instead he fights faster and smarter and soon enough the man’s eyes are going wide as he clutches at the shaft of the sword that has slipped through a gap in his armour.

Robb pulls back the blade quickly and he and his men push onward, leaving the bodies of the Lannister guards behind, they will be seen to later when the fighting is done.

His men try to make him stop for medical attention but he refuses, wiping away at the blood with his cloak and pressing on through the city. He will progress as far as possible, meeting Stannis’ troops, Renly, and the King himself closer to the Keep where they will take the Iron Throne and find his sisters. Only the Gods knew what was happening to them at this point.

*****

It takes too long and no time at all to crush any remaining Lannister resistance, a testament to the prowess of his own soldiers, and the effectiveness of the Wildfire. His sword is coated in blood and armour dusted with ash and muck from the battle. His limbs ache and his mind is buzzing with adrenaline, waiting for more fools to try their luck and face his sword - a poor choice that would be. Fortunately, they seem to value their lives a little more than the others have done before and they keep out of his way as he marches toward the Throne Room. From his many years as Master of Ships he knows the halls well, though his brother had rarely ever sat on the throne, preferring his bed and the company of whores. His men follow him dutifully, forcing open the doors to the throne room ahead of him to slam against the stone walls behind them and judder in reaction. Small clouds of dust break away from the walls when they impact it and though he hates the dramatism of it all, there is some satisfaction when his eyes land on the throne...though it’s not empty like he hoped. Nothing is ever so easy for him.

Sitting there, like her brother had when Eddard Stark had entered in the first rebellion, is Cercei Lannister. Though instead of a lazy grin and a sword in hand she clutches her youngest, Tommen, to her chest and her eyes are filled with fury. The boy buries his face in his mother’s neck as her face twists in a snarl. A true lioness to be sure.

“It’s over.” Stannis says, his voice echoes in the room. “Bend the knee and tell us what we wish to know and I will be merciful.”

“I don’t need your mercy!” Cercei snaps back, surely knowing the truth of their defeat by now and wishing for one last act of defiance, one last piece of power... “I will never bend the knee to the likes of you--”

Stannis sees her hand move into the folds of her gown and sees her withdraw a vial. His eyes narrow and he takes a decisive step forward. “Seize her!” he orders and his men jump to obey. Luckily, some have thought to keep to the shadows and move around the perimeter of the room, because the vial is brought toward Tommen’s lips instead of her own. It is poison he is sure.

Tommen opens his mouth trustingly, ready to drink when Renly and Robb Stark, having kept to the perimeter of the room unseen, seize Cercei’s arms and knock the vial from her hand. It smashes into a thousand pieces on the floor, the contents now useless, and the former Queen screams, enraged and turns to claw at Renly’s face. The sharp twist of her movement sends Tommen slipping from her lap and into the swift and steady arms of Robb Stark.

The boy wriggles like a snake and screams for his mother, lashing out with chubby limbs and crying fat tears, but Stark’s grip is not to be broken, no doubt already experienced from practice with difficult younger siblings. Cercei turns her attention from Renly and lunges for her son, only to be held back in the strong grip of his guards whom she fights and struggles against with a single minded ferocity calling out for her son and demanding they let her go, “I am the Queen!” she yells.

Renly hurries to help Robb with his former nephew, and as his face is a familiar one to the boy and this calms him somewhat, even while his men grab his mother’s arms and force her to kneel.

“What’s happening?” He asks, whimpering “I don’t understand.”

Stannis listens with half an ear as they guide him over to a corner so the boy can’t hear the poison his mother will spit at him. He walks steadily forward until he stands over Cercei, his guards having brought her to kneel beside the throne.

Cercei looks at him with such hate that it almost makes Stannis laugh. His brother’s wife had never liked him. He had always seen right through her, treacherous snake that she was. Though she might have been more loyal if Robert hadn’t been so set on repopulating Westeros with his bastards after the war, it was no excuse for the _mummery_ she had taken part in all these years.

“You will die, make no mistake about that. For your betrayal of Robert, for putting bastards born of incest on the Iron Throne and the murder of Ned Stark.” Stannis says, his voice just low enough not to be heard by the woman’s youngest. No child needs to hear something like that and know of their parents deeds or inevitable death. She snorts and tosses back her head, the only part of her that she can move, and sneers at him. “However, depending on how you cooperate I may just allow your children to live.” A flicker of surprise passes her face but it’s hidden quickly. Stannis has a deal to uphold, a deal made to ensure the loyalty of the Northmen. Obviously his first questions are about Lord Stark’s sisters.

“First of all, you will tell me where you have imprisoned Sansa and Arya Stark.”

It was part of his alliance with Robb Stark and part of his fealty toward him as rightful king that every effort would be made to rescue them before any other move was made to secure his hold on the world outside of Kings Landing. Should the girls be found alive, they were to be brought to either himself or Robb unharmed and treated with the utmost care. Should the girls be found dead, but Stannis and his men having made every effort to find and rescue them...the North would still be bound to Stannis’ banner. United, again, because of the death of another Northern girl, or girls in this case. He hopes they they will find the girls alive and unharmed--

“Dead, I hope. Both of them.” Cercei spits.

Stannis adjusts his grip on the handle of Lightbringer and he sees Cercei’s eyes flicker toward the blade.

“Watch your tongue, woman.” Ser Axell Florent snaps at her, stepping forward as if to hurt her.

Stannis shoots him a cold look which makes him freeze and duck his head. Stannis needs her fearful, hoping for mercy for her children, and a quick death for herself to make her cooperate.

“Dead, why? Have you killed them too?” he asks bluntly. He can barely restrain himself from grinding his teeth when she laughs, green eyes glinting with a disturbing mixture of amusement and malice.

“Where else would they be? Other than Maegors Holdfast, which I myself left some time ago. Though who knows what Ser Ilyn Payne has been doing in the mean time--”

He hears the sound of running feet and Stannis turns to see Robb Stark and his guards rushing out of the hall leaving Tommen in the arms of his brother.

Stannis turns back to Cercei who is looking far too smug for her own good.

“You know just as well as I do what happens to high-born ladies in times of war…” she trails off and Stannis feels cold stones settle in his stomach. “But I feel the Starks may have wasted their journey-- Arya Stark fled the city some time ago and Sansa...well the little dove left something behind and went to fetch it only she didn’t come back. Perhaps she’s already met some of your guards and they’ve decided to welcome her back in the proper fashion…”

“I have no rapers in my army.” Stannis grinds out, wishing the woman wouldn’t smirk at him so. He found himself angry that she thought she could get under his skin so quickly. “Every man knows what will happen to them if they touch an unwilling woman.” His guards all shift a little, likely imagining the pain of being gelded.

“As you say.” She smirks. “Though I doubt there would be too much regret, she is a sweet little thing after all...”

Stannis grinds his jaw and looks at her coldly. “Confine Lady Lannister to one of the secure chambers.” He sees Cercei’s gaze flick over to Tommen and Stannis wants to sneer at her. He must remain calm.

“The boy stays here.”

*****

Robb had seen death before when a sickness had spread through Winter Town and the young, the old, the infirm and the strong had fallen one after another. In the spring when the ground was soft enough to dig, it was as if the land was sewn with bodies instead of seeds. The sickness had come on slow, but there were signs, and those around the afflicted could prepare themselves for their deaths. There was a stable boy, a maid and a groundsman who fell ill in Winterfell and their deaths didn’t affect him then. Death was a balm for their aches and pains. It was natural, and life went on.

This however, there was nothing natural or just about _this_.

Ladies and maids and children were lying slumped over. Eyes wide and glassy or squeezed shut in terror; mouths open or pressed closed it didn’t matter. None of them had to die.

“My Lord--” Robb turns to find Torrhen Karstark behind him looking a mix between grim and hopeful. “Your sisters are not among those here.”

Robb wonders whether he is a terrible person for feeling relieved. “I know.” He says quietly. There are none with Sansa’s fiery red hair, nor Arya’s long, horsey face.

“We spoke with the guard but he offered us no information--”

Rob almost snorts with dark humour. There’s a building hysteria that threatens to break through and force him into laughter. He is sure it would go down well amongst the bodies of the dead, their murderer and his men. “The man has no tongue. He cannot speak.” He takes several deep breaths and bites hard on the inside of his cheek, feeling blood trickle into his mouth.

Rob looks over to Ser Ilyn Payne, bound and silent between two of his guards and gives the man a cold stare. All other emotion but anger flees at the sight of him and the laughter dies in his throat. He sits, bound, seemingly unbothered at being captured by Northmen despite having been the one to behead their beloved Ned Stark.

Though the man was acting on orders, as many soldiers did, Robb would never forget.

“My Lord?” Karstark prompts, looking at him.

“Take him to the Black cells and lock him up.” Robb says decidedly. “We’ll deal with him later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse any mistakes made here, have been pushing to get this finished in my lunch hours because the Stansa tag seems to be tapering off a little this week (NEVER)  
> Only four weeks left until I get back to more normal hours and can write for longer than an hour a day...


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say a second update? No? Well it's happening. And it's a little longer too.  
> Excuse the mistakes I spent this morning finishing off the next chapter because certain people were dying of suspense and I just couldn't leave you all hanging for so long again. Hope you like it!

The battle was won, and as promised, Lady Catelyn was sent for as soon as they were able.

She arrived on horseback looking tired and worried, as seemed to be her permanent state, and headed immediately for her son. Stannis watched from afar, engaged in a conversation with Davos and various other Lords, and saw how Lady Stark’s face crumpled in grief when Robb Stark spoke to her.

They had questioned servants and many Lannister guards who had surrendered and all whom they spoke to confirmed that Lady Arya had been missing since the death of her father. Lady Sansa however, had been seen the day of the battle, but not since it begun and though his men had searched high and low, they had not been able to find her.

Some thought she might have used the battle to be a distraction to escape like her sister, but Stannis knew differently and steeled himself to find her body.

High-born maidens were not brought up to be able to survive in the world without a Lord Husband, servants or guards. They relied on others for protection and care. With those taken away most would not survive if they had to. It was also often said that Sansa stark was a rare beauty, and rare beauties usually aren’t allowed to wander alone for long lest they be dragged off and hidden away by the depraved lot who captured them.

If she was truly as beautiful as many said, they would not be seeing Sansa Stark again.

Lady Catelyn seemed to steel herself and took her son’s arm, walking side-by-side as he led her into the keep. Rooms were being prepared from there and he assumed she would want to rest before making preparations to head back North to her remaining children.

Stannis thought about his own daughter, Shireen. He admitted, if only to himself, that he would enjoy welcoming her to King's Landing as Princess and Heir Apparent to the Iron Throne. Though it might be difficult to acclimatise herself to living in the Red Keep, and being under so much attention, he was sure his daughter would be able to deal with it. Sylese would see fit to guide her in her duties as a Lady, though Stannis and the Maesters would continue her other lessons that would help her rule well when the time came. Stannis was under no illusions that Sylese would give him a son. The births of their children had been difficult for her, only Shireen had survived, and he had to say the attempts to do their duty were tense and uncomfortable, and usually over as quickly as possible.

“Your Grace?”

Stannis looked back at Davos, pushing away his thoughts to focus fully on the words his Hand was saying. “Continue.” he ordered. Davos seemed to know that his mind had been wandering because he retold his findings without seeming to repeat himself and directed the other Lords to take their turns.

Davos was in charge of interrogating a slew of Lannister guards who had been caught dragging the Hound away for Desertion. The scuffle had been rather quick between the Lannister guards and his own, Clegane managing to break free from his bindings and distract their foes long enough for them to be captured. He was then surrounded himself, but surprisingly didn’t bother to fight, simply cursed and told them to “fucking hurry up!” when they bound him again. Some wanted his execution immediately but it was possible that his desertion meant that he had been fighting for their side.

However, Stannis found out that the guards had dragged him from the room of Sansa Stark, and currently that was much more interesting than the supposed change of loyalties from the Lannisters.

Stannis had spoken to the man, asking questions himself for a while. Unfortunately, Clegane had offered them nothing. He would not tell them why he was there or whether he had seen Sansa Stark. It was almost impossible to believe, but, Davos assumed the guard had some affection for his ‘little bird’ and Stannis had to admit it was likely, though a man as brutal as the Hound having ‘affection’ for anyone still seemed rather odd to him.

Ser William Foxglove, one of his sworn knights had been the first to march into the infirmary and arrest a screaming Joffrey after they had secured The Hound. The Maesters had tried to protest that the Houses of Healing were not a place to do battle and he needed to recover, but they soon stepped aside when the flash of steel caught their eye. Joffrey’s guards, all cowards, did nothing, simply stepped back and let them take the screeching young man and bind him. Upon Stannis’ orders they took him to an isolated cell where the dark and damp and silence could almost drive someone mad to wait until they had time to deal with him properly. Wildfire still sprung up from the ashes of the outer wall every now and then and had to be dealt with by using copious amounts of sand to try and snuff it out.

“...Joffrey revealed to us that the Hound went to capture the archer that shot him but didn’t return. For that, he sent out guards to capture him for desertion. I believe the boy didn’t think his sworn shield was quick enough in his hunting of this mysterious archer.” Foxglove’s face twisted in disdain. “I will not repeat what he called Lady Stark when we told him The Hound had been found in her room, it was most repulsive.”

Stannis was above torture, but he wondered whether he should let Robb Stark have some time with the Lannister to get some satisfaction at defending his sister’s honour. When the time came, he may also let Robb Stark swing the sword. Something to keep in mind to secure the loyalty of the North further...

Ser Axell speaks up now, present as ever, seeming to think that though he had appointed himself _Hand of the Queen_ , it somehow also meant he was entitled to be  _Hand of the King_. An outward show of intolerance of his wife’s uncle was not allowed, and so Stannis reluctantly let the man almost burst with triumph in delivering his news.

“We have also captured several others whom we think Your Grace will be interested to see.” The hint of triumph in the man’s tone meant that it was several people of status and Stannis nodded slightly, the man puffing up with pretentious self-importance.

Stannis gives his orders with quick efficiency, thinking on all the other tasks that still await him. “I will speak with them tomorrow. Put them in the Black cells for now, next to the Hound.”

*****

It had been a whole three days since King Stannis Baratheon had taken the city and took his rightful place as King of Westeros. Though to be honest, while Catelyn was glad that it was no longer a Lannister who sat on the Iron Throne, it all seemed irrelevant after finding that both her girls, her sweet Sansa and Wild little Arya, were missing.

She knew not what to say. It felt as though the ground had been swept out from beneath her feet and she’d fallen onto hard earth. Shocks seem to run through her body, mixing with the numbness that seemed to fill her limbs for the months since she’d heard of Ned’s capture.

They had taken the city for _nothing_.

“Mother,” Robb, her first born boy, looked at her worriedly as she stared at her hands. “Sansa was not with the other ladies — there is still hope that she escaped.“

Catelyn looks up, he is sweet to comfort her like this, though it should be the other way around. He has been so strong through all of this and putting on a brave face and hoping for his sister’s safety when truly they both knew that missing highborn maidens, especially ones as pretty as Sansa, would never turn up unharmed.

Catelyn places her hand on his stubbled cheek. She can still remember when it was as soft and smoother than silk to the touch and how she could hold him in her arms and rock him to sleep each night. He had been a rather chubby baby and his giggle contagious to all who heard it. Much like Sansa’s soft spoken words and sweet little smile endeared her to all who met her — and Arya, such spirit! Though often chastised for not being a proper lady like her sister, she was scolded for it with a fond amusement and Ned had loved to indulge her. Arya had often wished to be a boy if only to ride and shoot and play at swords like her brothers…

“I have sent riders to look for Arya, though it has been some time since she has been seen. According to the servants she hasn’t been seen since father—“ Robb swallowed thickly, seeming to draw inward, concealing the emotion that threatened to weaken him whenever he thought of his father. “I have found out the location of Sansa’s room from one of the maids, mother, if you would like to come with me. I am going to inspect it.”

Catelyn nods and gestures for her son to lead the way. They walk through the corridors, a solemn pair, their guards trailing behind until they reach Sansa’s room. They hesitate outside the door until Robb pushes it open slowly, swinging on silent hinges.

Sansa’s room is as they expect it though much untidier from the searches that have gone on. The guards who had been sent to look through her room were looking for clues as to where she had gone or who had taken her - which was a strong possibility.

Catelyn looks over the vanity, filled with bottles of scent and combs and pieces of jewellery. Robb walks slowly about the room, moving to the open window while she wanders over to her wardrobe and opens the doors to look inside. Her smile is pained as she trails her hand over the fine, pretty coloured dresses and silk scarves and sashes.

It’s lovely, and she can imagine her Sansa in each and every one...but her picture of her little girl is skewed, because her Little Girl was no longer little. Eighteen years old. She tries to imagine her older, struggling a little, putting on a calm front for Robb until she notices the torn dress at the bottom of the wardrobe.

Had Sansa been wearing this when the battle had begun? Had she tried to escape and had the dress _torn_ off of her? The thought makes her want to retch. She closes the doors and looks about the room. Now, past the mess the guards had left her room in, Catelyn can see signs of a struggle - the bed sheets are rumpled, some pulled out at the corners, knick knacks and keepsakes are not orderly and scuff marks are evident on the floor as well as a suspiciously coloured patch of stone tiles. All over the room, looking past the surface, are signs of a struggle - or a fight at least. Perhaps a fight where someone was overpowered and--

“Mother.”

Catelyn turns to Robb and she can’t help but suck in a gasp through her teeth, terrified. In his hands Robb holds a bloody sheet. Not a bloody sheet in a way that could be mistaken for moonblood or a First Night, but, enough blood that could be fatal.

Her son looks lost, eyes so wide and almost waiting for her to set it right, but how can she when the evidence before them is seemingly so strong?

“Where?” she asks hoarsely, her voice tight, trying not to cry. Her little girl...

Hands still holding the bloodied sheet, he points. “Over there--”

Just in the corner of the room. Sitting there plain as day.

She would be having words with these guards, and words with the King too. If he thought that this was an acceptable show of looking for her daughters then he was mistaken!

Tears leak from her eyes, angry and sad and hurt. Her chest feels fit to burst with pain and her face scrunches up, eyes clenched tight as though to shut out the thoughts and feelings that assault her in a sudden wave. It’s not enough and she can’t push away her grief and fears any longer, the pain seems to rush up from the ground, punching through her feet to the crown of her head and her knees buckle with the raw emotion she’s feeling.

Just as her knees are about to crack against the stone floor, and she wouldn’t care if they did, she feels hands come underneath her arms and Robb is there, supporting her once again. He helps her to sit on the bed, the bloodied sheet crushed between them and she grabs at it, grabs at Robb, holding them both to her and she lets out a low cry that makes her jaw ache.

Catelyn opens her eyes and meets those of her son, and though her own are blurred with tears she can see the building moisture in his own. She hugs him to her chest, his strong arms around her and the sheet trapped between them, clenched in a white knuckled grip as finally their tears come without restraint. The feeling so intense, grief rushing through her like a river that had burst its banks after a storm, and her throat closes, forcing her to choke on her tears and splutter into the shoulder of her son. Two girls missing, two boys North and one boy trying desperately to be the man everyone needed while he was still just a boy himself.

She hadn’t wanted to believe it, she knew terrible things happened during wartime, but she’d thought that Sansa would have escaped it. She probably could have charmed a guard, one or two to keep her safe or help her out of the city but...the blood on the sheet says otherwise. There’s too much for it to be anything but fatal. The pain in her chest increases tenfold when she feels Robb’s shoulders shake under her hands and they hold each other tighter.

Then, above the rushing in her ears, she hears the creak of a door--

She looks up, red eyed, prepared to deliver a fierce scolding to the guards outside the door who thought anyone had the right, or any who would dare interrupt their grief, when the whole world seems to still.

It’s her.

Standing just outside of what must be the water closet, looking tired and wan and all too pale, her face covered in dust and fiery hair a mess of tangles. Catelyn’s eyes rake over her, taking in the dirty shirt and breeches and rumpled cloak...but she’s alive and seemingly unharmed. She grips Robb’s shoulder tighter than she means to and she feels him look up from her shoulder and freeze beneath her hand, muscles tense.

How could she be real? Was this some kind of trick? Catelyn desperately wants to run to her, wrap her in her arms, ask her a million questions but she’s paralysed by fear, and Robb is too. His face is pale and eyes far too wide, tears streaming down his cheeks as he looks at the young lady before them, who seems so much like their Sansa but it cannot be her, can it? Their Sansa would never wear breeches, nor a shirt like that, and what about the blood on the sheet? What had happened? What was she doing in the Water closet? Why doesn’t she say something...

The girl’s lower lip starts to wobble as she opens her mouth to speak, to say what they never find out, because all that emerges is a low keen and her face crumples. Suddenly they can move again, Robb and Catelyn rush to stand and they all step forward at the same time, baging heads on chins and elbows in sides as they collide in the middle of Sansa’s room, clinging and grasping desperately at one another.

Catelyn thinks the girl says something that sounds vaguely like Robb or Mother, and Catelyn tries to reply but her own words are equally as difficult to understand and she can barely see through her tears. Her hands flutter over the girl’s shoulders and at her side and on her arms and hands and face, wiping at her tears and combing through her hair. It’s a dream that feels all too real, far too good to be true because her hands don’t come back wet with blood, only dust, and when the girl buries her head in her shoulder, grasping back at both her and Robb, Catelyn catches a whiff of her scent. Beneath the grime and dust, Catelyn would know that scent anywhere.

It really is Sansa.


	8. Chapter 8

“My _darling_ girl--”

“Little sister--”

Sansa almost can’t believe it. Wrapped in the arms of her mother and brother for the first time in months she lets her tears and her fears and the sheer relief flood through her. She holds them tight and lets them stroke her hair and arms and back, and every few minutes because none of them seem to quite believe their luck, they pull back to look each other in the face and smile through their tears, letting out little laughs or cries and pull each other back.

Sansa pulls back once more and her mother’s hands cup each side of her face while Robb towers over them both, each are smiling at her with tears in their Tully blue eyes. Robb looks much older, a man grown now and a shadow of a beard beginning to come through, the same red as his hair. It is so good to see him, safe and unharmed, and her mother too, here with them both. Though her mother looks older now, wearier, and there’s even streaks of grey in her auburn hair, she’s still beautiful. Though the extra lines on her face and the way she’s going grey at her temples shows the toll their time since leaving winterfell has left on her. But she still has the same smile and warmth in her eyes and she smells the same, comforting scent that Sansa remembered though it had grown fainter in her memory since she left Winterfell. She can’t help but let out a delighted giggle, feeling younger and freer than she has in months and buries her head between the two of them, hugging them tightly, breathing in their scent in by the lungful, delighted that they’re together again.

Eventually, they separate from each other and move to sit on the edge of the bed, Sansa between them.

“You are alright then, Sansa?” Robb asks, looking worriedly over her, searching for cuts or bruises still.

“I’m fine--” Sansa assures them both, smiling widely as her mother puts an arm around her back and holds her to her side. “But I’m so much better now that you’re here. I knew you’d do it!”

Robb blushes faintly under the praise but Sansa sees his eyes flicker down to the bloody sheet now discarded on the floor. “Then what is…”

Sansa looks at the sheet, the smile slipping away and her face now turning grim. Robb’s hand lands on her wrist and Sansa flinches. He immediately removed his hand but her mother reaches over and gently holds her arm and slides the sleeve away. Sansa can see the way Robb’s jaw clenches and she hears her mother’s low gasp as a ring of purpling bruises are revealed, circling her wrist in the shape of a hand.

“What happened?” He demands quietly, looking from her wrist to her face, his eyes boring into hers and the beginnings of an angry flush creeping up his neck. “Was it the Hound? Did he--?”

Sansa looks back at him, eyes wide with surprise. Had they seen the Hound? Had he been captured by their soldiers? Was he dead?

The next words seem to get stuck in Robb’s throat and Sansa feels her mother’s hand gently turn her head toward her. “Did he force himself on you?” She asks looking solemnly into Sansa’s face.

Sansa recoils, horrified. “No--” she shakes her head as though to discard the thought before she looks at them imploringly. “No! Sandor would never do something like that.” Robb and her mother share a significant look between them, probably at the use of his name instead of the epithet ‘The Hound’, but _she_ knows he wouldn’t hurt her. “He helped me--I escaped from the room the Queen had ordered me to and came back here to hide but there were guards already here and Lord Baelish said--”

“Petyr?” her mother says, blinking owlishly. “What was he doing here?”

“He said he was going to take me to you but I knew you were going to win so I said no, but he wouldn’t listen and he ordered his guards to tie me up and…there was just so much blood.” Her eyes stray down to the sheet on the floor, covered in blood and slowly turning dark and stiff. “Sandor used the sheet to clear it up.” Sansa’s face had turned grey as she remembered and her hands moved to rub gently at her wrists over the bruises. “If Sandor hadn’t come, I wouldn’t be here right now.” Sansa looks up at her mother sadly, earnestly, “I don’t think Lord Baelish meant to take me to you, mother.” she looked taken aback and seemed at a loss of words. She and Lord Baelish had been friends when they were younger she knew, and it was said Baelish had held great affection for her mother… “Do you know what happened to Sandor Clegane, Robb? If he has been captured and is still alive and well I would ask you not hurt him, please. He has always helped me and I know I would not be sitting before you now if he hadn’t.”

Robb looks at Sansa as though he has never seen her before. “And he never--”

Sansa’s cheeks heat with a blush, “ _No_.” she insists. “Please if you could…?”

Robb blinks and takes a deep breath in, letting it out slowly. “The Hound is currently in the Black Cells, unharmed as far as I know.”

A sudden terrible thought occurs to her. “He was stabbed! In his side, a Maester--”

“--will see to him.” Robb interrupts seeing her concern, and Sansa gives him a relieved smile. “Now is there anything you need?”

“A bath,” her mother says beside her, smiling tiredly, “maids to tidy your room and a change of clothes I think. Robb if you could--”

Robb nods, gives Sansa one last hug before he leaves the room, informing the guards there that his sister has been found alive and well but she would very much like someone to bring her a bath.

“Do you want us to inform the King, My Lord?” One man asks, his face sporting an excited look, clearly hoping to be able to deliver such good news.

“I will do it myself, I have things to discuss with the King.” Robb replies, turning to give Sansa and her mother a wave over his shoulder before he leaves.

Curled up under the arm of her mother, though sweaty and rather dusty and hungry for a little more than hard cheese and tough biscuit, Sansa feels more content than she has in a long time, smiling toward the guards who poke their heads through the door to wish her well.

*****

Clegane sat relaxed against the wall, his hands and feet bound in iron bonds and stinking to High heaven. All those who were kept in the Black Cells smelled various degrees of revolting, though it was mind over matter whether you chose to acknowledge the stench or not. He didn’t seem to mind, and Stannis made no comment on it.

“If you tell us the name of the archer we will consider this information during your trial.” Stannis states, looking coolly down at The Hound. Considering his deeds during his service with the Lannisters, it was almost a foregone conclusion that he would not live to see the end of the month. Perhaps The Hound knew this, but he showed no evidence of it in his manner.

They (he and Davos) had been asking him questions for several minutes now and not once had the man made to stand or bow or kneel and plead for his life. He also made sure to look Stannis in the face and for that a grudging respect forced its way through, no matter how much he wished otherwise.

“Answer your King.” Davos ordered, quiet but firm.

The Hound seemed to pause, assessing them both, before he huffed a laugh and seemed to shrug to himself. “Don’t know, don’t care. Had I got a hold of the bastard who set the bay alight you would have been looking for a body, not a missing man.”

“So your loyalties remained the same, to the Lannisters, then? You had no wish to see the King succeed nor assist in a plot to help him to so?”

“I was the sworn shield of the king--”

“Bastard King.” Davos interrupts.

“Yes bastard-King, usurper, violent little shit, whatever you want to call him. I followed orders. He’d been shot on my watch and I had to find the fucking archer.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” he looked angry, “seemed to disappear into thin air, thought I heard him go down a corridor but--”

“Lady Sansa. You saw her.”

The Hound glared at Davos. “Don’t know. You hear a lot of screaming during battles…” he shrugged, his mouth closing, now seeming entirely uncooperative as he had any time the topic of Lady Sansa Stark was brought up.

Stannis ground his teeth. Clegane had not offered them any new information even though they had even tempted him with wine.

The first time they did it he had shook his head stubbornly, the next time they did it, a day later after only giving him water, and he had almost broken his own chains to get to the wineskin. It contained a harsh, sour red that Stannis would not touch even if he was dying of thirst. Terrible stuff. The Hound had endured sweating and a high fever afterward, making it through by the skin of his teeth and was now perhaps sober for the first time in years.

He looked tempted by the wine the guards (off duty and only there to put pressure on their prisoner) drank outside his cell gates. He refused to ask nor beg nor fight to get it and so no more information was given for a drop of the wine.

Davos asked a few more questions but The Hound was now even more uncooperative than usual, answering in grunts and nods or shakes of his head.

Stannis was about to leave when he heard the clanking footsteps of a guard approach, their pace hurried.

A Northern soldier, out of breath and looking far too excited for his own good bowed hastily and delivered his news. “Your Grace!” he pants, almost buzzing with excitement. “Lady Sansa has been found!”

A body would not cause such a cheerful reaction as this.

“Alive?” Stannis says and he shares a look with Davos who looks surprised but pleased. He can’t quite believe it. He wonders how the girl survived on her own after leaving Maegor's...

“Alive and unharmed, Your Grace! Lord Stark was going to tell you himself but--” the guard trails off a little sheepishly, “I’m afraid he got caught by Lord Manderly in the upper halls and sent me ahead to ask for a meeting with yourself and Ser Davos at your earliest convenience.”

Stannis replies with a nod and Davos orders the man up to Lord Stark and tell him to meet them in the council chambers.

Stannis turns back to the Hound as the guard retreats watching the man’s burned face for his reaction. He’s surprised to see relief there, further shown by the way his shoulders relax a little, and when he looks closer sees a bitterness. He wonders why but doesn’t stick around further to question it. He leaves the cell and begins to walk away when he hears new guards take their place and speak.

“Looks like you’ve lost your chance, Clegane. Lady Stark has been found without your help so it’s now all down to your trial - good luck with that.”

The guards fall silent and if the Hound makes any reply Stannis doesn’t hear it. Now the Stark girl has been found their alliance with the North is assured and will surely be strong enough to withstand any backlash from the remaining resistance in Westeros. Stannis leaves the Black Cells with renewed purpose and heads toward the upper levels to meet with Lord Stark, passing a nervous looking Maester along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still writing in my breaks as you can see :) Hope you're all still enjoying it, now Sansa's been found things are going to speed up a little and soon there'll be a meeting!


	9. Chapter 9

King Stannis seemed to be making good headway in Kings Landing. Thankfully, all the fires had been put out and now the force of his army was used to help clear up, rebuild and keep the peace. The King would also send men off to scout the surrounding areas and bring back information from other parts of Westeros, carrying messages and the like. All of them had been instructed to lookout for her sister for which Sansa was grateful, but not very hopeful, though she refused to think that her sister was dead. Arya was alive somewhere, Sansa was sure of it, though if she was smart she would have left Westeros or tried to make her way to the Wall - to John. She would be safe there until she heard that they had taken Kings Landing and were returning home, at which point she would hopefully come home too.

Aside from soaking up the presence of her mother and elder brother she had been thinking about her half-brother more and more as of late. Even more so when she thought how Arya would have likely journeyed there. Sansa felt terribly guilty for how she had treated John when they were younger and now her father was gone and Arya missing, she felt the need to see her family. She wanted to cluster them all together and ensure they were all safe. She would write him a letter and then, on their way back North, she would see Winterfell and then perhaps ask Robb if he would like to visit the Wall with her. She was sure he would like to see John again.

“Arms up, Sansa--”

Sansa did as she was bid by her mother and allowed the dress to be pulled over her head still lost in her thoughts, but content to let her mother do as she wished. Seeing to her every need was nice and her mother’s constant presence by her side was a great comfort.

She had worn only dresses since she had found her mother and brother in her room and had not worn her breeches or a shirt since. They had been looked at with disgust by her mother (mainly due to being filthy) when the maids had brought her a bath that first night. Her mother had wanted to get rid of them completely, still puzzled that Sansa had been wearing ‘mens’ clothing, but panic had seized Sansa and she had rejected the idea immediately. Her face had flushed red with embarrassment as she muttered “Just in case…”

Sansa might not wear the outfit again, but she didn’t want to get rid of it completely, it felt like bad luck somehow and so were sent away with a maid to be washed. Her mother had given her an odd look but agreed and had thankfully not brought it up again.

It was several days after Lady Sansa had revealed herself to her mother and brother that a meeting with the King was requested. Request was the wrong word, truthfully, but Sansa had no wish to deny it and so she agreed, and with the help of her mother, made herself ready. The expected pretty dress was worn and gloves (a new addition) pulled on quickly after.

Her mother had insisted on helping her and Sansa relaxed under her mother’s firm hands as she pulled at the laces which were knotted firmly once it fit comfortably about her form.

The dress was a steely grey and while the cut was simple, the embroidery that circled the collar, sleeves and hem, were not. To her mother’s quiet distress, the dress had not fit straight away. Lady Catelyn had made it for her (and another for Arya) on her way to Kings Landing while travelling with the Stark, Tully and Baratheon host, intending it to be a welcome gift once they saved her from the Lannisters. Sansa had tried it on the day before and it had been tight around her hips and stretched across her bust in a way that made her rather uncomfortable - it was far closer to Dornish fashion than Westerosi - especially with so much of her chest on display. Her mother had managed to pull a seamstress from nowhere however, and somehow she had managed to snip and sew and pin the dress until it fitted each of Sansa’s new curves nicely. Lady Catelyn then began choosing fabric for new dresses she would make for Sansa. She knew it was to keep her mother occupied while they were in Kings Landing though it seemed they would be here two months at least before they had finished preparations to head North again.

North. Home. How good those words sounded.

Sansa sighed contentedly as her mother carded her fingers through her hair and began to plait her fiery strands.

Her hair was left down for the most part except the two braids starting from her temples that twisted into one where they met at the back of her head. They were secured with a pretty silver Direwolf clip Robb had ordered for her. Sansa noted he looked far too anxious about giving her the gift to think about scolding him - even though the Blacksmith’s talents were better used elsewhere at this time. When her mother had finished doing her hair and brushing down her dress Sansa couldn’t help but admire herself in the mirror for a little while. Her mother had tears in her eyes and said how beautiful she was, while Sansa could only stare at her reflection and suddenly see the change in her. She looked like a woman.

Odd that such a thought would hit her now when she had been wearing much ‘older’ dresses since Cercei had started gifting her with them. Or perhaps it was her experiences that showed her body in a new light; the tired, guarded look in her eyes or the way her lips rarely tilted upward into a true smile unless it was just a tilt at the corner - a startling difference to those who had known her before she had left Winterfell when her smiles were so freely given.

“I can come with you, if you like, Sansa. Just say the word and I’ll be there.” Robb had offered but Sansa had put her hand on his rough cheek and declined. He was sweet to suggest it. However, Sansa was sure the King would want to know about how she survived the Battle unharmed and would wish to know what she had gone through in the Red Keep. Had they accompanied her, she would not have been able to spare them any details - the King would see she was not telling him the whole truth and would perhaps demand she told him the whole truth. She knew it would pain them both to hear how much her brother’s campaign had impacted her treatment in the Red Keep.

Sansa allowed herself to be guided to the table by the window as her mother showed her bolts of cloth, now ready to be escorted to meet the King, felt a churning sickness whirl in her belly and twisted her gloved hands nervously behind her back so her mother wouldn’t see.

The gloves were an unusual addition to her outfits in this heat, and though they had not been questioned they were looked upon oddly. Most thought she was trying to start a new fashion - which she did - but in truth it was to cover the small scars and hard skin that had built up on her hands from the use of her bow, and, if an observant person put the clues together, they might just assume that she could be the archer.

She remembered how her mother had smoothed her hands down her arms to link her hands with Sansa’s. She was taking in how much Sansa had grown in their time apart when she had paused and looked worried, turning Sansa’s hands over in her own. It only took a moment for Sansa to realise that she was looking and feeling the cracked and callused skin of her palms before she quickly pulled away. Her mother looked as though she wanted to ask but Sansa shook her head and said “it’s nothing” and Lady Catelyn had worn a pinched, worried look for the rest of the day. Sansa had been wearing light gloves ever since, to conceal the skin of her hands which would turn soft again soon enough though she quickly started to miss the hum of energy in her arms and hiss of her arrows.

Sansa had heard that The King had made his Hand a Lord for bringing him food at the Siege of Storms End, but that he had also took the fingers from his hand for smuggling. It was Justice, Sansa thought...and yet she had no intentions of facing such consequences herself. If she did, what would be her punishment? She didn’t know what the consequences would be for the destruction of the city’s outer wall and murder of all those who had been caught in the flames, innocent and not. Perhaps they would hang her. Perhaps she would be burnt - a sacrifice to the Red God that the King was apparently so fond of. The North would not stand for her to be killed surely, and that would mean more bloodshed and that was something Westeros really didn’t need.

The mysterious archer would have to remain a mystery.

“My Lady, are you ready?” Her Northern guards, from houses Mormont and Manderly called through the door.

Instead of answering them, Sansa said a soft goodbye to her mother and moved to the door, opening it herself to see Ser Davos waiting in the corridor. He had arrived to take her to The King. She had never seen Ser Davos either, but she could tell who he was straight away.

Ser Davos was slight of build and though not old, his face is a tad weathered by the wind and storms that blew his ships across the sea. His beard was peppered with grey and his hair and eyes were both a rather ordinary shade of brown. He looked kind and of a sturdy, sensible character. However, though Ser Davos looked friendly enough, she has no doubt he could be rather fierce too. He is The King’s most loyal man.

“The King is in the Small Council Chamber, My Lady.” Ser Davos says looking a little uncomfortable with the guards at his back.

“I am ready, My Lord.” Sansa smiles at Ser Davos and tries not to let her gaze stray to his fingerless hand.

“This way, My Lady…”

*****

The Small Council Chamber is a suitable base for his needs until the situation in King’s Landing is more settled and his solar redecorated. He has made some progress, and everything thus far is going smoothly. Well, all except for one thing…

It’s truly not an important issue, and one he shouldn’t really be thinking over so heavily, but it’s the thought of not knowing at all that drives his investigations. He has spies (as much as he dislikes them) and has spoken to every servant and every guard and there is still no sign of this ‘mysterious archer’ and so the man remains a mystery.

Stannis wonders in between tasks whether it is all a guise, made up by the remaining Lannister men to try and cover up their failure. They could have set the Wildfire alight by accident and then blamed an ‘archer’ for it, perhaps so they wouldn’t go down in the Histories as the House-Who-Set-Themselves-Aflame. But what if the archer did exist and it wasn’t a cover-up? He has discussed the man’s motives with Davos and perhaps the archer sought to work with the Stark/Tully/Baratheon forces, or perhaps he just wished to rebel against the tyranny of the Lannisters. It’s possible he remains unharmed and is waiting to see whether Stannis will be any better as a ruler…

Stannis huffs as his neck gives a sharp twinge, forcing him to sit back in his chair and pause his reading. He could lift the paper up to see, rub his neck and get back to work, but the identity of the archer plagues him.

Davos had suggested a reward for the archer to come forward and identify himself, and it had been done. A week had gone by but no one had come forward. The man was lying low perhaps, waiting to see whether another would claim his prize. Stannis would deliver on the reward, his honour would allow nothing else. Golden dragons, food, supplies and the like. The quantities were not stated, but enough to suitably reward the man who had helped turn the battle in their favour so strongly. Stannis hopes he comes forward so he can be done with it. There are far more important things to be looking for than this archer - like evidence and testimonials in the trials of those who had been found alive or escaped the wildfire.

He also needs to finish these reports.

He puts quill to parchment and no more than a minute later he hears Davos come in, announcing Lady Sansa too. He hears her soft slippered feet come to stand just in front of the table and Davos’ heavier boots beside hers. He doesn’t look at her yet.

There is only a sentence more before he can finish this section...and...done.

He puts down his quill and stoppers the ink, he looks up and blinks several times in quick succession.

Lady Sansa is the spitting image of her mother, red hair, fair skin and tully blue eyes. Many had called her a great beauty, boasted that she was the fairest maid in all seven kingdoms, but he had thought them boastful if they were Northerners or merely looking to waste time with jests if they lived further south. She was...acceptable.

Lady Sansa gave a flawless cursey and spoke a soft, “Your Grace.”

Tall, neat in appearance and polite. If perhaps a little prettier than the daughters of other Lords she was not the great beauty she was made out to be - as much as the other men would fawn and flatter her. He was no flatterer certainly and he had neither the time or the inclination to do so. Robert would have, and perhaps Renly - in jest. He would not.

“Sit.” he orders and upon noticing a stern look from Davos, he adds a belated “My Lady” onto the end.

Davos pulls out a chair for her and she sits, thanking him with a small smile when Davos takes his own chair at Stannis’ left side.

Lady Sansa’s attention turns back to him and Stannis straightens, wanting to get this over with. He has many other people to see and speak to before the day is out and his city’s needs grow and grow. However, before he can speak and get straight to the point of their meeting, Davos begins making small talk - a more pointless, detestable, waste of time you could not find. Other than dancing, singing and feasting perhaps, but, he admits grudgingly to himself that as Davos begins to ask Lady Sansa questions, and receives answers in return, he notices her relax a little.

Eventually, Davos seems to get to the point and begins to ask her about her treatment in Kings Landing.

Unfortunately, though they had all suspected she would not have been treated kindly, the levels to which the Lannisters had sunk, particularly Joffrey in their torment of the girl, was a new pit of depravity.

They had made her watch her father’s execution and later showed the girl her father’s severed head, placed atop the walls of the red keep. She spoke of the beatings from the Kings’ Guard and how Joffrey and Cercei had often mocked and teased and tormented her, painting terrible pictures with their words and how she had worried over them. Lady Sansa spoke of how they had stripped her before the court and none had lent her their help except Tyrion Lannister and The Hound.

At that moment he had wanted to ask her about them both but it seems Lady Sansa has a list as long as The Wall is Tall to recount of the wrongs done to her.

She begins to tell them how her brother’s progress in marching South, and eventually joining forces with his own, leads to some of the harsher treatments she has had to endure. For once Davos makes no move to show Stannis that he has noticed the creaking and grinding of his teeth - instead he is far too busy looking at Lady Sansa in a horrified fashion.

She looks down at her lap, her gloved hands folded neatly over one another and seems to gather her words. “It wasn’t so bad at first...and there were times when it was tolerable.” She inhales steadily until she sits straighter again and her clear blue eyes flick up to meet his own. Stannis and he pauses grinding his teeth for a moment to better hear her soft spoken words. “I had...friends. Of sorts. People who tried to help me as much as they could - had they done more for me, and so obviously, they would have been called up and perhaps moved away or even harmed themselves if Joffrey or Cercei heard about it.”

Stannis manages to unlock his jaw long enough to ask his next question, “Can you tell us their names?”

Lady Sansa nods slowly. “If their actions toward myself would be taken into account should they come to trial, Your Grace I would be most appreciative.” Stannis nods but makes no such commitments. “The first to be kind to me, if such a word can be applied, is Sandor Clegane.”

“Clegane--” Davos says startled.

It is quite difficult to believe, Stannis thinks, but he wonders whether their stories will match. He nods at her to continue.

“He has saved my life on more than one occasion. On the day that Joffrey took me to see my father’s head atop the battlements he was lost in thought and I had the urge to push him...it was quite high and he would not have survived the fall.”

“And had you been caught?”

Lady Sansa looks at him straight in the eye and gives him a sad smile. “I would have followed him, if only to take control of my own fate and not have it dictated to me by the Lannisters.”

“And Sandor Clegane stopped you.”

“He did.”

“You said he helped you more than once. What was the next?”

“He lied for me.” Stannis felt there was something significant in that statement but he couldn’t figure out what. He couldn’t know that The Hound did not do ‘lying’. “On Joffrey’s name day there was a celebration and he almost had a man killed, drowned in wine, but I stopped him. I said it was bad luck.” The bitter little smile looked out of place on her face. “Joffrey didn’t believe me but Sandor Clegane confirmed my story, he said ‘what a man sows on his nameday he reaps all year’.”

Stannis didn’t need to ask for the next time The Hound had helped her. She told them how he had saved her from the riots, her face pale as she told them of the three men who had forced her down to the ground and held her there struggling, their intent obvious. Next was how he had wrapped his cloak about her to shield her from the gaze of the Court after her dress had been torn, and how he had killed lord Baelish and his guards when they had tried to take her from her room only a few days ago.

Stannis had a feeling there was more, but Lady Sansa seemed to want to stop there and he supposed they had enough to be getting on with.

Clegane’s actions toward Lady Sansa did not outweigh his services to the Lannisters, but it was something to be considered.

“And these other people who helped you? Can you name them also?”

Lady Sansa paused and seemed to shuffle about in her seat a little, and, from an unseen pocket concealed in her skirts, she pulled a roll of parchment. “I would ask for mercy for those who helped me, Your Grace, and justice for those who did me ill.”

Stannis took the surprisingly heavy roll of parchment with a raised brow, “And this is your list...of whom you would ask mercy for?”

Sansa Stark looked him right in the eye, her eyes burning, and replied.

**“No.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late nights at work are now OVER...and I can now write this fic for more than a couple of hours a week!


	10. Chapter 10

The Black Cells were aptly named; their occupants saw no light but that of the torches the guards held when bringing food, water or taking away someone for questioning. The guards soon left again, eagerly awaiting the somewhat fresher air on the upper floors and the rush of darkness in the absence of the torches left spots of light dancing in Bronn’s eyes. It was during these brief visits that he was able to see, and not just hear, his two other cellmates.

Sandor Clegane had been in the cell opposite a day or so before he and Tyrion had been captured and had said very little though they had tried to draw him into conversation more than once. They had found out from the King and the Lord Hand’s questioning that he had saved Sansa Stark from the hands of Petyr Baelish, and for that they were grateful enough to leave him be when he snarled at them. The Hounds bark was ever worse than his bite...mainly because bars separated them and he could not reach far enough through the bars to strangle them.

In the long moments of silence that covered their cells, Bronn wondered whether he ought to be more worried about their impending deaths. The Hound might have some cause to be given leniency considering his ‘saving’ of Sansa Stark though he had served the Lannisters loyally for many years. Bronn was a sworn shield of a Lannister and Tyrion was...well he was a Lannister. It didn’t look good for any of them really.

Bronn hoped he would neither hang nor be burnt (as some of the guards had said) but given a quick, clean death. He imagined when they took him from his cell to the upper levels, to separate his head from his shoulders, he was sure to be blinded by the glare of the sun. He could image the heat of summer on his face, the cool breeze from the bay and the hundreds of cheering onlookers waiting for his head to roll…Still, it would be preferable to this thick stinking darkness. Kings Landing would surely smell as sweet as the Water Gardens of Dorne compared in comparison.

Bronn was tired of the stench of the cells and sitting and sleeping in his own shit. As much as he tried to keep it to one corner it was likely he would sit or step or lay in it at some point in an effort to not let his muscles go to waste when he paced or did exercise. It wasn’t as though he could escape the scent of it either. The smell that flowed through the passageways and low cramped cells was rancid. The strength of the stench made bile spring to the back of his throat and his eyes water. It was not a smell you could get used to - though the guards did their best at concealing their distaste it couldn’t be completely hidden. Obviously it was a joint effort by the scum that inhabited the cells further along though out of sight and barely audible through the thick walls and muffling qualities the damp cells held.

“Do we get a last request?”

Bronn looked through the bars to the cell beside him, much smaller than his own, to see his Lord leaning back against the stone wall behind him looking pensive. Tyrion Lannister may just make it out of this alive...or not, considering his name. It was sheer luck they had been far enough away from the outer wall when the Wildfire had been set alight - by some incompetent torch carrier he supposed. They had not stuck around to find out who had set it alight, nor how hotly the flames would burn, and had attempted to flee the city to find somewhere safer. Of course, from their current position in the Black Cells, their failure was evident.

“I don’t know, My Lord” Bronn said eventually, his voice low. He was comforted somewhat by the fact he was not alone in these parts of the Black Cells. It was a maze of tunnels, sound did not carry here, and you were as likely to go mad from the isolation as you were to die from disease. His Lord’s keen mind would allow them conversation and keep them from sinking too deeply into isolation. King Stannis would likely not wait long to remove their heads when the time came. “If they do, I want a flagon of wine and two lovely ladies to suck my--”

A soft cough interrupted his speech and Bronn realised there was someone coming - the glow of a torch and the soft swish of skirts told him it was no guard. Certainly the slender, soft stepped figure was none of the burly brutes who shoved their rations through their cell bars. Nor was it the others who would check on them at random points to make sure they were still alive.

“I have brought you something to eat.” At her words, for her pronunciation and manner were of a Highborn Lady, Bronn and Tyrion knew exactly who had come to speak to them.

Lady Sansa kept her hood up as she placed the torch in a iron basket on the wall handed both Tyrion and Bronn a small wrapped parcel containing infinitely better fare than what they were accustomed to - and a small flask of wine.

Bronn could almost not contain himself when presented with slices of soft bread and thick pieces of meat that rested between them. He tore into it savagely with his teeth, unable to hold back the moan as the meat burst with flavour on his tongue and fell apart easily as he chewed. Tyrion had not bothered with the food first, simply uncorking the flask and taking a long draw of the full red that quenched the thirst that could not be satisfied by water.

When Bronn swallowed his third bite of the delightful treat Lady Sansa had brought him he looked at her with sad eyes. “You should not be here, My Lady.” It was far too dark and grim a place for a Lady so sweet as she.

“No.” She said, agreeing, but made no move to leave, watching them both with a keen eye.

Tyrion had taken only one more mouthful of the wine before he stoppered the flask and clutched it to his chest protectively. He spoke, with an earnest tone that well communicated his appreciation for her thoughtfulness. “Are you well - I understand his Grace King Stannis has taken the city, and your brother is he…?”

Lady Sansa smiles and it becomes all the more clear from the way she seems to glow that she is truly happy. It is one of the first genuine smiles he has seen from her in his time in King’s Landing and he much prefers her smiling. Bronn takes in the look on her face in as much detail as he can because he knows, when they sentence him, it is her smile he will think of. He has never been much for romance or fanciful tales but the thought gives him a little comfort. She was always far too good for the likes of Joffrey--he wonders whether the little shit had been captured or killed during the battle. No doubt they would have lost some good guards for it.

From behind Sansa the sound of chains shifting and clanking are heard and she turns quickly to find the Hound has come closer to the bars, standing there looking at her.

“There’s little point wasting good wine and food on dead men, Little Bird.” he rasps lowly.

“And who said these are dead men?” She replies, her voice wavers and Bronn wishes he could see the expression on her face and do something more than scowl at the Hound for making the girl so upset.

“Here,” She says, holding out another wrapped package, “This is for you.”

The Hound makes a move to take it when he sees her hold out a flask - likely to be the same wine that is in Tyrion and Bronn’s own - and he hesitates and steps back.

Bronn cannot see her expression but from the steel in her voice he expects her eyes have narrowed. “You can’t expect me to believe you would prefer the slop they serve you down here?” She takes another step forward and pushes her arms with the parcel and flask through the bars. “You will take it.”

Bronn shifts to the side for a better view of the Hound and sees a flicker of indecision pass on his face. His eyes stray back and forth between Sansa and the flask.

At first he looks about to refuse when he slowly takes the package...but not the flask.

It’s too easy to sense Sansa’s confusion when she continues to hold out the flask. “It’s a sour red - the cook said it was your preference…”

“I’ll not touch it.” he takes a step back. “I’ll eat your food though it’d be a waste, but I’ll not have the wine.” He slunk back to the corner of his cell and slumped down against the back wall. “Best fly away little bird.” he said roughly, “and don’t come back. Dead men don’t want for company.”

A long silence swept through the cells, settling until Tyrion sighs and looks down at the flask still cradled in his hands, “You know he’s right, My Lady.” he says and Sansa turns around, “I doubt very much that anyone in the Black Cells will be given anything other than the sword, rope or stake. I daresay our separation from the rest gives away the likelihood that we will be disposed of as quickly as possible.”

Lady Sansa’s lips thin into a stiff line and her blue eyes are hard as she picks up the torch from the wall she had placed it in and carefully gathers a handful of skirts in the other.

Bronn feels sorry that she has to leave, wishes she could have stayed longer, and perhaps told them some news--

“You should not be so grim, My lord.” she says and her posture is as straight as an arrow, a steely look in her eyes that wars against her usual soft, compliant demeanor. “I have reason to believe that the King may spare your lives.”

Poor girl, Bronn thinks, to believe that such a man would spare them. A Lannister and two sworn shields, one a lover of gold and girls and the other almost a butcher in the way he cleaves his targets in two--Tyrion can never leave well enough alone.

“And what reason is that?”

Lady Sansa does not break eye contact, does not shiver or sniff or shrink back from the intense stares of each of them, but stands taller and speaks with a calm, clear voice and certainty that comes from confidence that makes them all turn still with surprise.

Her reply is simple and all the more shocking for it.

“Because I have asked him.”

Neither Bronn, Tyrion nor The Hound say anything for a very long time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update for you all ;D


	11. Chapter 11

Stannis often found himself interrupted, but, he found he didn’t mind it all that much.

At first, it started with notes - names, dates, addresses and the like. He was confused until Lady Sansa arrived one afternoon and asked him why he hadn’t yet arrested the young man who worked in the stables or Ser Amory Lorch?

Stannis of course had no idea what she meant until she began, without leave, to rifle through the papers on his desk and fish out a note that had appeared there two days pior, proceeding to tell him why.

Stannis was far too annoyed at what she told him to take issue with her shuffling through his papers. Apparently the boy was attempting to drum up some resistance in favour of the Lannisters (even though their forces had been thoroughly decimated at the Battle of the Blackwater), and Lorch was planning on sneaking either Tommen and Mrycella out of King’s Landing and back to Casterly Rock. Such intent could not be borne of course, and so Stannis had the boy arrested, and, under Davos’ effective questioning he told them everything. Amory Lorch and several of his co-conspirators were now new additions to the Black Cells awaiting trial. The only reason they had not been there in the first place had been because they had surrendered and pledged their loyalty. Their vows had now been found to be false however, and so they would face the King’s Justice like the others.

After they had been dealt with, Stannis called Lady Sansa to his solar - hastily stripped of everything Lannister and made to his usual spartan standards - and spoke steadily to her. She listened well and accepted her duty to pass on relevant information to him like they all must, before taking her leave. He wondered how she had heard such a thing being only about her mother and brother and taking the occasional walk, he did not think that Lorch was so stupid as to speak of his plans so obviously. But, he cast the thoughts from his mind, intending to think about them some other time when he could look over them more thoroughly. However, to The King’s surprise, it was merely two days before she was back again with a slip of paper that held a name and address.

The sound and sight of Lady Sansa entering his solar became a common occurrence, and one he did not mind, because it meant they were rooting out the sickness that was corruption and resistance in King's Landing.

Both were improving steadily no matter how much some wished to deny it.

Each visit made by Lady Sansa seemed to last a little longer than the previous; sometimes she brought names or addresses on slips of paper but others she spoke with him of her time in King's Landing.

It was these meetings he found the more interesting, but also more vexing.

Lady Sansa often visited him having remembered another incident, words spoken or name for him to add to her ‘list’ which he had been working through steadily. Servants and guards confirmed the stories she spoke of and the Lords and Ladies of court who wished to save their own skin spoke hurriedly about how awfully poor Sansa Stark had been treated. Sometimes Davos joined them when they spoke, or was already there, but often he was called away and Stannis had to attempt to soften his speech for speaking of such a delicate subject lest he say the wrong thing and send her sobbing from the room. He spoke little in the end, letting Lady Sansa speak her thoughts while he made notes to himself on the list she had given him. He made notes beside the name to which the crimes belonged and soon he had to write on the back. The amount was truly staggering, and when he thought on it alone, so she could not see the anger that showed on his face, it made disgust well in his gut and wish he had been able to muster his forces to stop the madness sooner. There was one positive however. The information and recounts of Lady Sansa’s time in King’s Landing made it much easier to organise the perpetrator’s trials and deliver the justice that followed. He decided to leave the most despicable of the lot till the end. A rather grim finale of sorts.

Aside from those who were being ‘saved for last’ the trails ended, as he thought they would, with hangings and beheadings and a large number of men to be sent to the wall. He had ordered Robb Stark to take them with him when he and his forces headed back North which he was more than happy to do.

Stannis had received a missive from Lady Melisandre to wait for her arrival so they could give them all to the Lord Of Light, but he refused to draw it out for those whose crimes were not so heinous as those of Joffrey Lannister. It was cruel, even after all they had done.

It was with some surprise that Lady Sansa attended both the trails (and sometimes executions if that was the sentence) of those on her list. She watched with a stoic calm that did her credit, and soon enough he came to expect her there. Her appearance in his solar, at the meetings between his slowly growing Small Council, stopping in during the week to ask him things or tell him something new...so when she came again, no story to tell nor paper in hand he was rather confused.

“I wish to do more, Your Grace.” She said, standing beside his desk and eyeing the piles of waiting work that cluttered every available space.

“More?” he repeated, frowning. “My Lady, you do well enough now.”

A small crease appeared between her brows as she clearly thought hard over her words. He wondered what role she had in mind.

“I may sound impertinent or far too familiar, Your Grace, and forgive me if I do - but I feel as though there are some things I am more capable of than say, Ser Davos.”

Stannis’ frown turned darker. “You are correct - you _are_ impertinent.” Davos’ service was nothing short of devout, not perfect however, his courtly manners and reading and writing did need some improvement but he was more than capable of fulfilling his duties.

It was a good thing that she did not finish speaking there or else Stannis might have become annoyed - insulting Davos was a sure way to destroy any hope of cooperation from him.

Her eyes widened and she hastened to make herself clear, her gloved hands reached out to plant themselves on the edge of his desk as she did so and the fluted sleeves of her grey dress almost touched the floor. “It was not my intention to discredit Ser Davos, he is an excellent Lord Hand but...there a few things which I think require a Lady’s touch.”

Stannis found himself clenching his jaw, almost grinding his teeth, but allowed her to go on. She had provided valuable insights and interesting counsel when he asked her opinion and so it was out of the respect he had for her, that had been fostered in recent weeks, that he allowed her to continue.

Lady Sansa straightened and folded her gloved hands in front of her. “While I will never be so now, I was trained to be a Lady and then a Queen upon my engagement to Joffrey.” Her voice was hard and her hands spasmed, clenching each other briefly as she said the name. “In the absence of Queen Sylese I am able and willing to take on the duties of your Lady Wife until she arrives.” Stannis was surprised but did not show it. “--seeing to the smallfolk and the like is something I can assist in and will allow you and Ser Davos to focus on other things that require your attention. Perhaps you could select the other members of the Small Council...?”

She was _exceedingly_ impertinent, but, he conceded with a sigh he did not allow to escape, that she was right. She would be useful in taking some of the duties from him. Dealing with the smallfolk - and one she was apparently already so good at - was something he could afford to delegate. Davos had mentioned it to him just the other day that he was doing far too much and he did have other things that required his attention. There were also preparations to be made for the arrival of Sylese and Shireen too...

Perhaps he had stared at her a little too long because he noticed she started to look uneasy.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I--”

“Very well.” He said suddenly, “you may attend to the Smallfolk. Speak with Davos and he will guide you in any other duties this includes, however,” he paused and looked at her sternly, “you are to take a guard with you wherever you go. The city is still a dangerous place and I will not have my Northern army seeking revenge because I looked after you so poorly.”

Her genuine smile is quite unexpected as is the soft laugh that barely rises above a sigh. Her blue eyes seem strangely light as she speaks to him. “I am capable of looking after myself...but as you wish, Your Grace.”

Stannis says nothing of the familiarity of her speech, only nods in reply.

She curtseys, still smiling lightly, and bids him good day.

When he looks down at his paper he finds it ruined, stained with ink from his dripping quill he scowls at it before disposing of the ruined sheet. He has many things that require his attention and distractions are not conductive to getting work done - namely the reward for the Archer which the guards and Varys’ little birds will spread about for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what you get when I have reduced hours at work...  
> It's going to start picking up now, don't worry! We'll get to Sansa shooting arrows and wearing those butt hugging breeches I swear!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to establish a few things important to the plot...

Sansa’s new duties immediately caught her attention and she found herself satisfied with her progress each day. Her first task had been to organise the household and to make sure the restoration and cleanup of rooms was being done in the proper manner. She knew the King hated wasting anything, so tried to be efficient as possible. Each day she would take note of what rooms had been cleaned and made ready for use, and what rooms were left. The Red Keep was large enough for all its occupants to have two or three rooms each, and all were decorated with the Lannister luxuries that screamed expense.

It was one of her more intelligent ideas that had her inform Ser Davos that she was going to strip them of their excessive decoration and move the items to the vaults, ready to be sold off to assist with paying back the Iron Bank. Davos had looked approving and complimented Sansa on her smart thinking, offering to assist her with the task which she accepted gratefully. The Lord Hand, she found, was very helpful indeed and informed the other Lords and guards that she was doing it with the King’s permission when they made murmurs about her actions.

Had they even a single braincell between them they might have realised she would have never willingly taken anything for her own that was made and paid for by the Lannisters after what had happened to her.

With Sansa’s new occupation Robb felt less guilty about leaving her and so was busy with organising his troops and meeting with their mother and the Northern Lords to plan their journey home. Her mother was working similarly in gathering and organising supplies. Though it would be several weeks before they were due to leave King’s Landing it was better to be prepared.

Lady Stark offered Sansa her help but mostly seemed content to let her daughter take charge, looking on with pride as Sansa told her about what progress she’d made during the day or asked her opinion on something. Her daughter was growing into a fine young Lady and was sure to make a Lord very happy one day.

Sansa made regular trips out into the city to see to the Small Folk, as she had promised The King, and they quickly grew to love her. It was easier to smile outside, make new memories from which she could draw satisfaction from, knowing that she was really helping to make a difference to the lives of the people in King’s Landing. Her guards, a mixture of Northern, Riverlanders and those from the King’s own selection of Bannermen were watchful and were often surprised when she did not treat them like shadows, unable to think or speak. Their involvement and unthreatening manner toward the people Sansa spoke to helped build trust between the Small Folk and recovering city guard.

Sansa also made sure to give out as much as they could spare in supplies and share it equally through those who needed it most - every one of them thanked her for it with smiles stretching from hollowed cheek to hollowed cheek. They remembered the riots and the violence the Lannisters had heaped on them when they were starving and desperate. Their gratitude would help make the reign of Stannis Baratheon much easier.

Aside from the city, there was another place Sansa also made regular visits to. This time it was without guards, and without her mother’s knowledge.

The Black Cells were just as awful to visit a second and third and fourth time, and Sansa was glad her mother had not yet found out as Sansa knew she would not approve.

It was worth it however, even if the Hound did nothing more than watch her silently.

Tyrion and Bronn were much more talkative and grateful for the company and news she gave them, though they understood she could not tell them much other than that their trials would be soon and they should not give up hope.

“Of course not, My Lady.” they said, but frustratingly Sansa knew they didn’t mean it. It stunned her that they did not expect to live.

If only they could meet the King properly, then they would see - he is as Just as father ever was. He will see that they do not deserve to die...

Bronn and Tyrion were deeply appreciative of the food and drink she brought with her, Sandor rarely spoke though took and ate the food she gave him without complaint. Sansa received reluctant goodbyes when it was time to leave but always promised to be back soon.

Often the food she brought them would be leftovers from her own dinners or something simple she had found in the kitchens. Her presence there was noted, though none spoke of it or protested when she asked for the leftovers and scraps from meals - she thanked them so sweetly, after all.

They would not have questioned Shae, Sansa thought morosely one night as she lay in bed. Her hair had been braided back for sleeping by a maid she didn’t know - the maids whom attended her mother had been unavailable and so she borrowed the skills of those who were.

Sansa had denied wanting a maid of her own, saying it would be selfish to take a maid when she could be of better use elsewhere if the girl wasn’t only serving her.

This was not strictly true however, as she did need a maid but was reluctant to take on another so soon after Shae’s absence. Whether she was alive or dead she did not know only that she had not seen her since the night of the battle some weeks ago.

Her absence often struck her when doing little tasks or people watching. Shae would have had one bold remark or another to say about the people they saw. It was often during Sansa’s talks with the King that something would remind her of something her maid had said or did, and Sansa found herself likening Shae’s absence to a niggling stomach ache that never completely went away.

It was more her presence and her no-nonsense speech that Sansa missed more than her skills - she was a poor maid in truth - the backtalk, rolling of her eyes, sighs and stomping of her feet occasionally were but a few examples. The maids who came to dress and make up her hair were nice enough but they were no true replacement for the companionship Shae had given her through some truly terrible times in her life.

It was perhaps a good thing that Sansa had not sought another maid because, as it turned out, she was not in need of one.

The next day, after having returned from a meeting with the King, and arriving back at her rooms for dinner with her mother, Sansa found herself momentarily unable to breathe. There she was - Shae - pouring watered down wine into her mother’s goblet looking for all the world as though she had never been missing or away from Sansa’s service at all! Her clothes were clean, looking newly laundered and her dark hair was braided at the temples but the rest left loose to spill down her back.

There were few times in her life where Sansa could not contain herself and this was one of them.

Lady Catelyn had of course been rather alarmed at Sansa’s sudden gasp and rush to hug the maid, but seemed to relax (only a little) when Sansa explained that Shae was her maid and had been missing and thought dead--but now she was back and all was well!

Fortunately her mother took it well and gave Shae a small smile. “--then I am glad you are back, my daughter has been at loose ends without you.”

Shae had looked rather embarrassed at the display and when Sansa did nothing but smile unreservedly at her (after releasing her from her grip) Sansa swore she saw her cheeks darken in a blush.

“Thank you, Milady.” she said and curtseyed, still somewhat poorly, but Sansa thought it was all the more charming for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Shae's back!   
> Next chapter we'll see someone is starting to take notice of how good she's managing her duties in the city! ;D  
> Hope you liked this chapter, more coming soon!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To apologise for the shortness of the last few chapters I give you this beast!

That night when Sansa retired to her room she was still buzzing with energy that she couldn’t even think about sleeping. She lay on her side, head propped up on her hand as she watched Shae put out the fire and tidy up her room.

“Shae you must come with me into the city tomorrow - you should see how things have changed!”

Her maid was pretending to be stern but Sansa could tell that she was amused all the same - the small glances toward her form the corner of her eye and the way her lips tilted upward every now and then gave her away. “You will not be awake to take me to the city if you do not sleep.” she replied.

Sansa flopped over onto her back, arms out and turning her head so she could still watch Shae putter about, feeling far from tired. “Well I shan’t be going to sleep yet - not until you tell me where you’ve been! I have been out of my mind with worry--”

Shae stiffens and it’s like shutters have come down over her face. “I am a maid, My lady. You should not have worried about me.”

Sansa frowns and her lips form an angry pout.

“You are my friend Shae, as much as you try to deny it.” Sansa tells her firmly, “and now you will stop that and come sit here so you can tell me where you’ve been or I shall never sleep again.”

It’s a childish move, and one she dislikes making - ordering her friend around though it is her job. Perhaps she shouldn’t push, but Sansa has a reason for it - Cercei’s words come to mind from weeks ago and she can’t help but feel fear swirl in her stomach.

_Not all men are honourable and when they’ve been fighting and their blood is up, even if they’ve been told not to by their kings and lords, they’ll still come. They’ll still--_

If something terrible had happened to Shae then she wanted to know. Then she would find the _whoreson_ that did it and...well what is one more name to her list? She had only heard of two incidents as Cercei had described and both men had been publicly named, shamed and...gelded, by order of the King. Their pleads for mercy was satisfying, but truthfully, Sansa thought they deserved a worse fate than that and being sent to the Wall afterward.

Sansa’s face had turned serious during her thoughts, and Shae seemed to sigh before putting down the cups and plates from Sansa’s last meal to move over and stand by the bed as requested.

“Well if it’s a long telling your legs will get terribly sore. Sit.” Sansa shuffled over to the middle of her bed so she could sit down at the side of it. Though the bed was more than comfortable Sansa saw that Shae never fully relaxed into it.

It only took a few moments of Sansa’s best attentive look that Shae began to speak.

Sansa listened, on tenterhooks as Shae told her of her search for Bronn and Tyrion and then when the wildfire had caught, their terrified race toward the city gates.

It was difficult trying to get out of the city amidst a battle and they had run through small alleys and into doorways as soldiers and civilians had run past. The battle seemed to go on for ages - that and the fire was spreading - and they knew they needed to get out fast.

Unfortunately, they were not quick enough, and Tyrion refused to be carried.

Tyrion had pushed her with what little strength he had and she fell into a doorway and out of sight.

“Inside, now!” he had ordered her and Shae had just been about to reply when the thunderous footsteps of two-dozen soldiers rounded the corner.

Perhaps, for once, Shae did as she was told.

The soldiers, bearing various crests though all undoubtedly Stormlanders, didn’t bother to check the house she was stationed in, nor the ones nearby - they had Tyrion and Bronn after all and wasted no time in dragging them away.

Shae could not fight and definitely could not stop them, lest she be captured herself. Instead she waited for the fighting to die down and Stannis Baratheon to win, hiding out in the city for the days she’d been ‘missing’, listening to the news that passed from mouth to mouth until she felt it safe to return. She had arrived back at the kitchens yesterday, took new clothes and made to put herself back in Sansa’s service and no one had questioned a thing.

“And nothing bad happened - you were not attacked or...touched?” Sansa asked as delicately as she could.

Instead of answering, and quicker than Sansa could follow, Shae suddenly had a dagger in her hand and pointed the very sharp tip of it at her throat.

“I would not let them touch me--and if they tried…” Shae pulled the knife back and began to twirl it expertly between her fingers. Sansa’s eyes were as wide as dinner plates when Shae huffed a laugh and slipped it back into the folds of her skirts.

“That is...good” Sansa said swallowing thickly. Shae would never hurt her she knew, though her maid’s familiarity with the little blade shocked her. Sansa supposed the same could be said for her bow.

“And now you know, you must get some sleep.” Shae said about to leave her, but Sansa still didn’t feel ready to settle down just yet.

“Shae...I have one question” She could see Shae restrain herself from rolling her eyes. “Why did you want to find Lord Tyrion and Bronn? Why did you not try to escape the city on your own if that was what you wanted?”

Shae looked at her steadily and opened her mouth to speak, and suddenly, Sansa knew she was going to lie and hated it. She’d grown tired of them and now she wanted the truth.

Seeing the look on her face, Shae paused and then frowned.

“You want the truth?”

“Yes.” Sansa said firmly, though Shae’s next answer left her sputtering and turned her cheeks red with a furious blush.

“Your lover?” Sansa hissed the word as though it was forbidden to say it. Shae did not look amused and folded her arms across her chest.

“Yes. My lover.” She repeated. “He is very good - with his hands and his tongue and--”

Sansa let out a small scream and clamped her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut. By all the Gods she did not want to hear that!

She could hear Shae laughing.

“You asked for the truth, My Lady--”

Sansa reluctantly let go of her ears, feeling terribly embarrassed. “Yes, I suppose I did.” She was quiet for a moment before several pieces of information came together at the same time. “You’re not really a maid, are you?”

“No.” Shae’s sly grin is enough for Sansa and as her maid laughs to herself and Sansa settles down to sleep she has a feeling she knew what she did before she came to work for Sansa.

*****

“He’s looking at you.”

Startled by the sound of Shae’s voice Sansa looked up from her list, blinking dazedly as the sun hit her eyes. “What?” The day was warm and in the alleys and streets the heat was stifling especially when dressed in so many layers. Her breeches and soft cotton shirts were calling to her.

Shae turned, a sly little smile on her face. “Look over my shoulder,” her eyes shifted and Sansa did so seeing the usual gathering of Small Folk waiting to be seen or spoken to. Shae sighed and rolled her eyes. “No, over there--”

Sansa looked again and this time her gaze caught on more than just the smallfolk. A man whom she vaguely remembered seeing in armour about the keep, though couldn’t quite remember his name, was looking at her from the corner of his eye. Sansa watched as he pretended, poorly, to catch her looking. He straightened, smiled charmingly at her and turned in her direction.

Sansa quickly looked away.

“Now you see him.” Shae said smugly. “He’s been trying to get your attention well enough this past week.”

“Attention?” Sansa frowned feeling strange. “Well why hasn’t he come over to us before? Does he need something?”

Shae’s raised eyebrows made Sansa feel as though she should understand though she daren’t think why. From the corner of her eye Sansa saw him begin to make his way toward them through the throng of people surrounding them.

“Do you not like his look? He is not ugly...”

Sansa hadn’t realised she’d been frowning at her list and casting nervous glances at the man until Shae seemed to pick up on it.

She studied the man’s broad shoulders, easy smile and flaxen hair and could not see anything extraordinary to either like nor dislike about him. “Why should I not like his look - he is comely I suppose - though I don’t see why that is relevant to my duties?”

Shae gave her an odd look but shrugged it off. “If you do not like his look I can send him away - or one of your guards, Lord Cley Cerwyn seems to rather dislike him already.”

This was odd as Cley was usually rather affable though now he was not smiling but glaring rather fiercely in the direction of the man approaching. It was Shae’s talk that bothered her most and far more than she thought it should - why could she not speak plainly as she usually did?

Sansa’s eyes narrowed and she looked at Shae seriously. “Is there something that I should know - _quickly now_ , before he gets too close--”

“My Lady” Shae said lowly and plainly as Sansa had wished before. “--he seeks your favour.”

Sansa couldn’t rightly take in the words and blinked owlishly at her maid and for one moment, all was calm, and then, she panicked.

“Shae, I wish to return to my rooms. I am feeling rather tired--” her voice was rather loud and as she turned her guards obviously and they easily took their places around her, moving back toward the keep.

Though Sansa did not turn around to see, the man who had begun to approach them lost his smile and sent a rather confused look at their retreating backs. He sighed and decided to wait once more for the next day when he might speak to the beautiful Sansa Stark.

****

Sansa wondered how she had missed it. The lingering looks, inquiries after her health and praise for her dealings with the Small Folk, would all have been so obvious to her before. Now she had noticed however, they seemed off and false and those whose affection and sincere appreciation for her efforts was not what she thought it to be, only made her want to recoil.

“The Karstarks are quite taken with you, Sansa…” her mother said one night after dinner as she brushed out her hair.

Sansa had frozen under her mother’s gentle hands but she kept on talking and all Sansa could think of was how cold she felt.

“Of course there’s Cley Cerwyn too - he is rather fond of you already and I daresay would be honoured to ask for your hand--”

Her mother’s words seemed to rush and whirl around in her ears and all she could focus on were the names and places her mother spoke of. Places she would go to live as someone’s wife.

Gods, Sansa felt as though she would never want to marry! Her experience with engagement and the male gender thus far had been rather dire in regards to romance and even general kindness. She knew she would eventually want children, and a husband, and of course she would love to manage a household, but right now it felt stifling.

At 18 Sansa was of an age to be married. Many girls Sansa’s age were already married and had borne children, and while the thought had first delighted her when told she was engaged to Joffrey, now the idea was much less appealing. Even talking of marriage so soon after Joffrey, who had meant to love and cherish her and instead had been a nightmare, seemed wrong.

What was wrong with her?

“Are you alright Sansa, dear? You’re terribly pale--”

Sansa blinked rapidly, looking at her reflection in the mirror, realised all colour had drained from her cheeks and her mother looked worried.

Lady Stark laid a hand on her forehead to check her temperature. “Perhaps you’re coming down with something, I can ask the Maester to look you over tomorrow.”

Sansa’s younger self would have delighted in the attention, both from her mother and the thought of all those Lords and Sers wishing for her hand, but it only made her feel cold all over and shivery like she’d stayed out too long at nightime with nothing about her shoulders.

Sansa smiled at her mother weakly in the mirror. “Oh no, that’s alright. I’m fine thankyou, just a little tired.”

Catelyn’s expression eased and she began to brush Sansa’s hair again. “Well it’s no wonder- you’ve been ever so busy, darling.”

Sansa closed her eyes and gave into the soothing rhythm of the brush moving through her hair, trying to calm the furious beat of her heart as her mother promised her she would soon return home.

She lay in bed that night thinking over all the names her mother had said.

They were the Sons of Lords or Lords in their own right, with Keeps and Castles and Lands that she would help manage. Perhaps her mother would organise a marriage between herself and a riverlander or a northerner to keep her close to home, or perhaps, King Stannis would arrange a marriage for her to further secure the alliance of the north or some other noble house?

Sansa felt a little sick at her thoughts. Her mother had assured her she would return home but Sansa couldn’t help wonder how long she would be in the North for before she was forced to travel once again and call another place home and a stranger husband.

Sansa thought of Arya and how she would have laughed.

*****

To her mother’s quiet despair Sansa managed to ignore all advances and attentions for two more weeks. She claimed innocence, obliviousness though truthfully she was quite deeply in denial. They were truly appreciative of her efforts in King’s Landing and not just because of her pretty face.

Sansa could always remember how Joffrey had been so handsome and gallant and kind - the perfect prince. His gestures so romantic to her young self that she had fallen in love with her prince almost immediately. It would not be so this time - this time she would find out what they were like and she would not be taken in with false words nor pretty lies.

Unfortunately, her naivety only spurred her suitors on to try harder and harder to impress her.

In her rooms there were fresh flowers upon every surface and even a few jewels, she had been given countless notes and asked for walks often enough by those bold enough to do so. She took a turn or two about the gardens, always escorted by her scowling guards who held off any bolder moves by the men, and Sansa turned down several hopefuls. It would be cruel to let them think she was interested in anything other than talk, and yet, still they persisted.

Surely her lack of interest in the matter was a large enough clue?

Her mother had urged her to consider at least three to correspond with when they returned to Winterfell and so Sansa had considered three...considered them, and refused.

No proper lady would be seen, or even consider spying on those who sought to court her, because if they had, no lady would ever be married. When men gathered around each other (often to imbibe at a winesink or take in the gossip in the kitchens) the filth that came from their mouths made Sansa’s insides boil with anger and want to scrub herself all over.

Sansa had stormed back to her rooms after hearing their vulgar descriptions of her assets and what they’d like to ‘do’ before locking herself inside and refusing to see any of them no matter how many times they called on her.

They could keep their flowers and their jewels, their notes and their walks and press themselves upon some other more dim witted maiden than Sansa Stark!

After this, her now cool demeanor confused many of them, and she was only warm to those who guarded her. She now knew why Cerwyn had sported a cut lip and blackened eye, as she had a feeling he might have heard similar talk. She realised it was not from sparring in the training grounds like he made out. Sansa wondered whether the other man came off worse - though it was likely he would have if Cerwyn heard even half of some of the things they’d said when she had been listening.

Shae seemed to pick up on her Lady’s moods very well and so made no further comment about the other Lords that Sansa had been considering, and nor of their sudden rejection. Instead Shae worked alongside her to visit various orphanages and see that the children were all properly fed and clothed.

It was during one such trip that Sansa was speaking to a little boy by the name of Marcus, who was ever so adorable, when a conversation going on behind her between two of the helpers of the orphanage made her blood freeze in her veins.

_“They know who it is then?”_

_“Found out this mornin’, not sure whether they’re in for a reward or a burning meself what with the Red Witch on her way but they know now--”_

_“Doubt the King was pleased…”_

_"Furious, I heard."_

Sansa had barely enough time to smile at Marcus and straighten before she heard the heavy tread of castle guards come her way.

The people in the street parted easily for them and moved away from the door as they made their way toward her. She recognised Ser Axell Florent almost straight away, looking pompous and important and practically preening under the curious stares from the small folk.

“My Lady,” he said loudly, perhaps it was so that those who were not looking would do so now, “His Grace requests your presence in the Throne Room.”

She tried her best to look calm even though her hands were sweating in her gloves and her heart was beating at ten times its usual pace. A request was a command when given by the King.

A panicked voice, sounding much like her younger self, repeated ideas at the back of her head: _find mother, find Robb, they’ll protect you_ \--and surely they could all see the fear in her eyes?

Before they could suspect something was amiss, she ducked her head, said “of course,” as though she had been expecting it, and bid goodbye to the small family she had been speaking to. The boy Marcus waved cheerily at her as she left.

Shae asked her quietly whether she was alright, too low for the guards to hear, and Sansa replied that she was, giving her maid a polite smile that they both knew indicated the opposite.

Sansa turned back to look ahead, the armoured backs of the guards showed Sansa her far too pale reflection and a sinking feeling settled in her stomach. The voice at the back of her head suggested she run, but Sansa knew it was folly, there was nowhere to run to.

When the Throne Room loomed ahead, Sansa forced herself to keep walking, heart in her throat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt so evil after reading your comments on the last chapter, everyone expecting it was Stannis who would think Sansa is the bees knees but as it turns out it's all the other Lords wishing to compete for her hand! Hope you like this and forgive me for the cliffhanger!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a long one guys and even then I had to cut it in half!  
> Sorry for the year long wait!

Robb had never been witness to when his father sat on the Iron Throne as Hand, but he imagined he would sit something like Stannis Baratheon. Straight-backed and serious, listening to the concerns of the court and dealing out just punishment…though perhaps in a softer way than His Grace whose delivery left something to be desired.

“Enough of your whining—you will join the Night’s Watch and be grateful for it.”

“Please Your Grace, have mercy!”

“I doubt mercy was on your mind when you raped and butchered those women.” They whined and begged, but the King simply scowled harder, ignoring their pleas with sharp words. “Remove them.”

Robb was glad of the sentencing and caught the King’s eye as the men were dragged away to holding cells, and shared a nod.

The men whose sentence it had been to take the Black would journey back North with him. He planned to deliver the men to the Wall himself though their safe passage was not his only motivation — he was looking forward to seeing Jon again, and to find the truth behind those rather disturbing reports that had come from beyond the frozen barrier.

It must truly be something terrible if it had the Wildling’s running scared. They bred them fierce beyond the Wall.

For now, Robb was simply grateful that His Grace was taking the request for more men seriously and had promised to send some of his own forces to the Wall in due time to help support and restore the crumbling forts. Unlike Robert Baratheon and the bastard Joffrey, this King knew his duty, and Robb was glad hoping that now perhaps things could settle down and life could return to normal. 

A nod from Ser Davos and the next man was brought up to kneel before the King.

*****

Stannis Baratheon sat as straight and tense as a newly strung bow, and yet, despite looking uncomfortable on his seat he comported himself with a stiff sense of long-suffering that seemed to fit the Iron Throne more than any other she had seen. He listened to the evidence, asked questions and passed sentence after sentence until the group of men gathered before the throne dwindled to half a dozen. By this time Sansa had allowed herself to think, and to breathe, pushing back the throat-closing panic enough to think rationally about her current situation.

The crime was read. The evidence was given. The man’s pleas heard. The sentence passed.

There was no fanfare and little fuss about it all. Quick. Clean. Painless.

Sansa had wondered when they would call her forward but the King nor Hand looked her way when they asked for the next criminal to be brought forward.

If there was one thing Sansa didn’t understand, it was why she had been left to join the crowd and watch with no supervision.

She could have slipped out and hidden away as when they had entered the Hall, Ser Axell had led her to the viewing gallery to the right of the Iron Throne. With a nod, he had moved directly to the dais to stand at the King’s side.

Shae seemed just as confused as she.

They had quite a good view from the galleries that stretched alongside the hall—if the couple in front would stop shifting about—but failed to see why the King wanted her present if he wasn’t going to charge her right away. He didn’t like wasting time or mincing words and was blunt to the point of pain, but she couldn’t fathom out why she would be called here if he wasn’t ready for her.

As a Noble Lady and there were certain courtesies afforded her — even Cersei hadn’t been chained when they had tried her.

It was not that she was in any hurry to be sentenced, but she wished she knew what The King expected of her other than to stand and, so far, watch.

As time went on and as men were charged with treason, fined, or added to those who would journey North to join the Night’s Watch, Sansa wondered whether she was actually meant to face the court…or simply attend it. The sentencing of Lannister soldiers had been happening near enough every day, but that had not sent her heart racing. It had only been the gossip and announcement that they had found out the identity of The Archer that had made her pulse jump and palms sweat.

_Doubt the King was pleased…_

_Furious I heard..._

And he would be furious, wouldn’t he? Knowing she had liked to his face, told him that she did not know the identity of The Archer. But how could they have found out it was her? She had neither told anyone or visited the archery range since the day of the Battle. No one would suspect a high-born maid of doing such a thing, surely?

As the minutes grew and the speeches and discussion at the front of the Hall went on, Sansa felt a swooping sense of relief that made her legs turn soft.

_They didn’t know. Couldn’t—_

“M’lady!” Shae hissed at her, squeezing her hand and nudging her side with her elbow. “I can’t _see_.”

Sansa blinked and realised that, so consumed by her thoughts, she hadn’t been paying attention. She looked from her handmaiden, over the shoulders and heads of the shuffling crowd to get a better look. Being so tall did have its advantages sometimes.

Before the throne knelt two rows of what were obviously the last of the former Lannister men waiting to be charged. The Black Cells had been emptying steadily for days and they’d saved the ‘best’ for last. They’d been stripped of whatever armour or decoration they’d held previously and were obviously in desperate need of a bath. Most had their heads bowed and with their hair long and dirty from languishing in the cells Sansa couldn’t make out their faces. They looked like such a ramshackle bunch, packed together, hunched and dressed in the same poor cloth, they could have been dragged in from Fleabottom.

As another man for the wall was dragged away Ser Axell stepped from the dais and began to walk in front of it as he spoke. It was far different to what had happened in the other trials which had been quick and efficient. This had an air of _drama_ about it.

“I have uncovered evidence of a plot to overthrow the Lannisters while we marched on the City, Your Grace.” Ser Axell’s voice carried through the hall and Sansa forced herself to pay attention despite the fact it was like watching a poor mummer’s play. “And after interrogations and countless hours of searching, we have uncovered the identity of The Archer…and he is here before us today.”

All over the hall whispers and mutters broke out in a low wave of curiosity. The couple in front of Sansa shifted and looked to each other whispering excitedly.

Sansa did no such thing, and instead of excitement, she felt sick.

 _He…they said_ **_he_ ** _._

“Well?” Shae whispered to her. “Who is it?”

Sansa just shook her head, her eyes fixed on the quietly smug face of Ser Axell who seemed to revel in the drama of it all, chest puffed out like a peacock.

“A fierce fighter and excellent archer, he has subtly worked toward the success of the True King of Westeros—“

By now the murmuring was a little louder and Sansa scanned the hall, it seemed no one but Ser Axell knew the identity of this ‘fierce fighter’, apparently enjoying the speculation going on in the hall.

Unfortunately for him, The King was not.

“Ser Axel.” The King said sternly. It was amazing how the noise in the hall immediately died down to a low hush. Only Tywin Lannister had ever commanded such immediacy. “Get to the point.”

Ser Axell flushed and bowed, patting his sides as though looking for something. “Yes. Quite — my apologies, Your Grace.” The man did move and spoke a little quicker, his face flushed at being called out so obviously. He turned and pointed to one of the men kneeling in the first row. “Stand and address His Grace. Tell him everything you told me.”

 _It’s me._ Sansa thought, stunned as she watched the man shift and slowly get to his feet. _It’s me but they don’t know it. They’ve got it wrong._

He was tall and broad as most guards were but—

“I am The Archer, Your Grace.”

Shae’s hand was hot against the lace of her glove, pressed tight between them and covered by their skirts so no one could see how her hand shook.

_That voice. That. Voice._

Sansa felt Shae try to get her attention but she couldn’t look away, her mouth dry and no words could pass her lips even if she tried. It didn’t take long for her maid to recognise his voice, and she cursed in her native tongue. Sansa didn’t reprimand her, a small part of her even felt it appropriate.

Sansa recalled the moments of spite, childish disagreements and times when she had cried until she was sick. When she was young and safe in Winterfell, before her father had been killed, before she’d been forced to hide behind masks of courtesies and be meek and fearful until she picked up a bow and learnt how to save herself. 

Now, in the middle of the court, a man stood and lied straight to the King’s face, claiming a title he had no right to. Her ears buzzed and her bones felt strangely light in her limbs as though a simple breeze could blow her away and she’s drift into nothing.

As the 'evidence' was presented, Shae squeezed her hand tighter and Sansa’s palms, calloused and rough, prickled beneath the lacy layer of her gloves.

They couldn’t—by all the Gods if Ser Axell believed him it was a minor thing, but if the King believed him…it was a pretty tale he must have agonised over in the Black Cells, seeking to save his skin. He spoke of how he had discovered the Queen’s deceit and had been sickened by it. How he had loathed Joffrey for the little tyrant he had been and secretly supported Stannis Baratheon from inside the capital, looking for a way to allow the One True King to take his rightful place on the Iron Throne.

Sansa stared at him, hoping he’d feel her eyes on him and _look_. But he didn’t. He kept his eyes on Stannis Baratheon and Ser Davos, and all the while Ser Axell Florent seemed smug as though he’d been the one to set the Blackwater aflame.

“I was sickened by the acts the Lannisters committed but I could not reveal myself. After what they did to Lord Eddard Stark, who himself had protested Joffrey’s claim and supported you, I didn’t stand a chance. He was a far braver man than I.”

 _How dare you._ She thought with rage, her eyes burning as she stared at him, noticing how sweat darkened the pits and collar of his ragged shirt. _How dare you speak such lies to the King — and mentioning my father in front of his Bannermen you might score enough points to keep your head on your shoulders—_

**“You’re lying!”**

Her voice echoed in a harsh cry around the room, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife. It seemed the entire court stilled and held their breath. Those standing near to her turned and looked with wide eyes. It was only when the hissing whispers broke out from the crowd and the roaring call for order from Ser Axell that Sansa wondered whether she ought not to have said it quite so loudly.

There really was no hiding it anymore and a part of her knew she should press her advantage now she had it.

“My Lady, _no_!” Shae hissed at her, snatching at her sleeve to try and get her to come back, but Sansa wouldn’t—couldn’t let him spread these lies and let this charade go on any longer.

The courtiers about her were shuffling away so not to draw attention to themselves, willing to watch and let the scene unfold.

Sansa squeezed Shae's hand and said, "Wait here," before leaving her at the edge of the gallery. When she emerged into the wider expanse of the hall she was aware the whispers that shot through the room, and that of her brother’s soft, questioning, _“Sansa?”_ spoken from his place across the hall and he looked ready to march over and join her. She shot him a small smile and was relieved when he remained in place. Then, she looked toward the subject of her ire and the warmth disappeared.

Ser Meryn’s face turned pale and sickly at her appearance.

Sansa had a sudden and absurd urge to bear her teeth and snarl at him, but that wouldn’t be ladylike and so instead she kept calm and when she spoke her voice echoed around the room, only making the silence more pronounced.

“You lie Ser, and to the King’s face no less.”

“My Lady—you are mistaken.” He looked desperately toward the Iron Throne and the grim King who sat there. “Your Grace, I am the archer of the Blackwater, I swear it.” He was not so composed now, noticing how he looked up hopefully at her words as though waiting for someone to order her back to the Gallery and be quiet as a woman should…but they did not.

Sansa felt the words bubble up from her throat, as though Arya had grabbed her tongue and started talking with it.

“You are no more The Archer than Cersei Lannister a maid!”

A rough bark of laughter that sounded louder than the gasps and titters that spread through the hall and she looked for it. Sansa tramped down her surprise when she saw the ruined face of Sandor looking back at her, hunched over amidst the dozen kneeling before the throne. Beside him, Bronn looked slightly dazed before he grinned at her proudly.

Something like shock ran through her. Were _they_ the reason why she had been brought to court by Ser Axell? To watch as punishment was meted out, or bear witness to the King’s mercy if her list had been taken into account? Sansa scanned the men again. The others, she didn’t know…

Above the titters caused by her comment, Ser Davos spoke.

“Lady Sansa.” He said, his eyes drifting briefly over the court and the weight of them seemed to settle them somewhat, their voices reduced to hushed whispers. “If you have evidence to present you may do so.” The words, _but let’s keep it civil_ , remained unspoken.

She nodded in thanks and took a slow breath, straightening her spine as she focused on The King to direct her speech. She spoke with as much conviction as she could muster and held her head high, remembering her mother’s lessons on how posture and pronunciation could go a long way. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, for the interruption but I could not endure this false confession. Ser Meryn did not light the Wildfire or save the city from the Lannisters. He has in fact, been a staunch supporter of them since my arrival here and has enjoyed the benefits of being in their favour.” There were mutters about the hall and Sansa looked in their direction, sliding past the pale face of Trant to look into the crowd and answer their doubts.

_Who was she to say this man was not The Archer._

_What did she know?_

“Aside from his claim to be The archer which is false, I know in truth that he enjoyed some of the orders given to him by the bastard Joffrey as they were acts committed against me personally.”

The muttering grew and Ser Meryn turned his attention to her, twisting his face into a look of desperation.

Sansa hoped her family would forgive her for concealing her trials from them.

Meryn Trant went to his knees, his hands clasped together in front of him as though in prayer. “Lady Sansa, you must forgive me—please believe that I took no enjoyment from the act. I had to give the appearance of loyalty so I was not found out; it was only at the Blackwater that I was able to show my true allegiance!”

Perhaps he thought that because she was a woman they would not take her seriously and the desperation in his voice would make his words truthful.

Sansa remained unmoved. “I cannot forgive or believe you, Ser. When ordered to strike me you made no attempt to soften it as Ser Oakhart did, nor did you apologise afterward—and no apology now will move me, it would not make up for the bruises nor the humiliation of the acts.” Her face twisted into a look of such cold rage that it made the Wall look like a hot spring retreat. “Did you think me blind so that I could not see the excitement on your face when you struck me and tore at my dress?”

Sansa saw Robb’s face twisted in a snarl, and with the men beside him from houses Mormont and Glover, looked ready to charge forward and kill Meryn Trant where he stood. The court was in an uproar and their next words could barely be heard over the commotion.

“You are _confused_ , My Lady, if you would simply—“

“I am in possession of all my wits, Ser though perhaps it is an effect from the blast that you have lost some of yours.” Sansa fired back with all the composure of a Queen. She felt powerful, and for once, it seemed that her tormentors and their puppets were finally getting what they deserved and it was she who had brought them down. They would not win.

Rage had burned away her fear, her worries, and she spoke to do as much damage to any lingering respect or question of whether Trant would be pardoned for being ‘The Archer’ as she could.

Order, revenge and satisfaction were called for along with demands that Meryn Trant be put to the sword immediately. It took a red-faced Axell Florent shouting at the top of his lungs and a glare from The King to calm them down.

“Lady Sansa.” He said, clearing his throat and looking flustered when his voice wavered. “We are aware of the trails you have suffered and are sorry for them, but this man is The Archer, he is the reason we are able to stand here today and that you are reunited with your family! Surely you are capable of some forgiveness considering that?”

Sansa tried to be polite but her words came out with rather more bite than she anticipated.

“I might Ser Axell, if his claim to be The Archer was true, but as it is not, and he has lied to yourself and The King I would think that you would see him as I do—a coward and a liar who sought to take the title of The Archer to save his own worthless skin.”

“Lady Sansa.” Stannis Baratheon’s voice echoed through the Hall, and all discussion died so no one would miss a word of what The King had to say.

“Your Grace,” Sansa curtsied. She hoped that the presence of her brother and the knowledge of what she has suffered will lessen her punishment. If they chose to believe Meryn Trant, her gloved hands hiding the hardened skin of her fingers and the strong muscles in her arms would tell a different story.

The King looks at her with a measured gaze, jaw tight. “Do you have any evidence to support your claim?”

“None but my own memories, Your Grace.”

“Then explain.” His back is ramrod straight and he sits on the throne with such tension that had it been any other person they would have leapt off the uncomfortable seat by now.

Sansa nods and begins her tale. “As Kingsguard, Meryn Trant had been stationed by the then Bastard King who was up on the wall looking out over Blackwater Bay. When Joffrey was shot he was taken away from the wall and to the Healing Halls and both were therefore saved from being caught in the blast. Had Joffrey not been hit and its aim been true you would not have tried half these men, Your Grace.”

Her heart was beating so quickly it felt like a hummingbird had taken up residence in her chest.

“…after Joffrey was shot, the Lannisters realised they were under attack and men were sent to capture the assailant before they could strike again. These men missed the blast when the third arrow hit and were shocked at the explosion and in the time it took them to resume their chase, The Archer managed to escape. So you see, it is impossible for Ser Meryn to be The Archer when he was with Joffrey at the time.“

All was quiet and then the King said, “ _Three_ arrows?” his expression darkened as he eyed her. “How do you know this?”

Sansa knew what he was thinking --  _Why did you not tell me this before?_

Sansa looks at the King, forcing herself to keep contact with those intense blue eyes and readies herself for whatever punishment he deems necessary.

“I know this because…" It seemed as though the whole room drew in a breath. "... _I_ am The Archer, Your Grace.”

Silence reigns for so long that she is sure she has turned deaf, and then, the rough barking laugh of Sandor Clegane shatters it, followed shortly by Bronn’s clear and crude exclamation of “Fuck me!”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the year long wait, there were so many ways I could have written this chapter and none seemed right until I finished it last night!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter for you all as I go into the next four weeks of hand-in hell! Enjoy!

In hindsight, standing so close hadn’t been a good idea.

Meryn Trant’s dirty face is red with rage and he must know now that her words had secured his fate. “You stupid little cunt!” he bellows, the suddenness of it sends her mind spinning and stepping back. “I should have pushed you off the walkway when we took you to see your father’s head!“ 

She moves just in time to feel the air rush by her as Trant swings his cuffed hands, aiming to strike her with the thick manacles clamped about his wrists. From behind her, she hears a shout of “RESTRAIN HIM!” and the room bursts with movement.

There are gasps of horror from the crowd and the guards rush forward to try and stop him before he can land a blow but they move so slowly. There’s movement from behind Trant as the remaining prisoners jerk as though they too should flee. She spares a moment to look down at Sandor and Bronn who are staring at her with wide, horrified eyes. Bound and kneeling as they are, neither have the chance to intervene. It’s not their fault. 

It feels like a dream, knowing that she won’t be able to avoid him a second time, she’s too close and he’s desperate—

Strong hands clamp around her upper arms and pull her back just as a snarling mass of fur surges up and tackles Meryn Trant to the floor with ease. His yell of rage soon becomes a terrified scream as the beast bites down on his shoulder and jerks its head as though to tear his arm clean off. 

The crowd surges, screaming and yelling, some are running for the doors and the guards struggle to maintain order in the room, restrain the few prisoners who had thought to escape -- and then Robb is there, roaring above the crowd as he runs for her. 

“GOOD BOY GREYWIND! STAY!” 

Sansa turns her head, seeking the owner of the strong hands who had pulled her out of the way so quickly, to find Stannis Baratheon scowling at the scene before them. His gaze is locked on the way her brother’s wolf, almost as big as a pony now, holds down the struggling man — the look in Greywind’s eyes is of feral joy. 

“Your Grace?” she says, but the King says nothing. He releases her arms and stalks away toward Ser Davos where they have a brief but intense discussion as the guards struggle to regain control in the room. She can feel the ghost of his hands on her arms as she catches the glance sent her way as he speaks with Ser Davos. His displeasure is almost like a physical thing, and as he scowls she feels a flash of sympathy. The chaos in the room is her fault, though she cannot bring herself to regret the outcome. 

Trant’s blood is so very red. Like her hair. Sansa teases a curl between her fingers as she watches Greywind toy with his prey. 

Robb blocks her view when he takes her in his arms and looks her over. There’s a fierce anger in her brother’s face and Sansa is surprised all over again how their time apart has changed him. He has grown so much. 

“Sansa, are you alright? He didn’t hurt you did he? I’ll—“ 

She lays her hands on his cheeks, feeling the rough scruff of beard he’s been trying to grow. “I’m fine.” Sansa manages a smile but she thinks she must look a little dazed. It had all happened so quickly. 

Robb is reluctant to let her go, checking her over as though she had hidden some injury from him, but eventually her brother’s attention is called away and he releases her briefly, ordering her to  _ stay right there _ .

Sansa moves around him as soon as he turns away. 

It’s as though there’s an invisible cord tied at the bottom of her ribs, pulling her back toward the prone form of Trant on the floor. Greywind, almost crushing him as he lays atop him, snarls and digs his paw into the man’s injured shoulder whenever he tries to move. She stops to stand just beside him, on the fringes of the growing pool of blood and looks down at his face, pale and fearful.

Most of the hall has cleared but those who remain either have their orders from Ser Davos, are tending to the injured who had been trampled or watch her. The courtiers had rushed for the doors when Greywind had first tackled Trant to the floor as though there would be more beasts ready to fly from the shadows and knock them to the ground. Most of them would have deserved it too. The King had shown remarkable restraint when they had bowed and scraped at the foot of the dias in order to keep their heads.

From the corner of her eye, she can see The King approach, striding purposefully toward her until he is stopped by her brother. He seems annoyed by the interruption. Perhaps his short conversation with Davos was enough to seal her fate? Had they decided her punishment? It would be best she if she spoke to Trant now before they lock her away. Imprisonment seems the best of her possible punishments, though having lived to see her brother and mother once more was more than she could have hoped for.

Sansa looks down at Trant, a strange calm now settling over her. 

“Shall I tell him to go for your other arm or your throat?” Greywind growls as if in agreement and Ser Meryn’s lip shivers and his eyes are wide with fear. “Shall I laugh?” she hears herself say, knowing that time is short and The King will demand an explanation soon. Sansa looks at him feeling the certainty of her words fill her with a sense of peace she had not known for years. Not since Winterfell. 

“I am not afraid of you.”

Greywind draws back a little, Trant crying out as the wolf’s teeth leave his shoulder and gasps as pain surely courses through him. Greywind licks his teeth, blood dripping from his muzzle, looking happy. 

_ Perhaps he thinks it’s a game. _ Sansa muses to herself as Trant moves just a little too much. Greywind doesn’t hesitate to bite down once more, digging deeper.  _ If Greywind hasn’t bitten clean through his arm yet he will soon… _

The King clears his throat behind her and she turns, curtsies, and looks calmly into the scowling face of Stannis Baratheon. His jaw jumps as he grinds his teeth. The noise only stopping so he may speak. 

“You will come to my Solar immediately. I believe your declaration warrants a discussion.” 

_ Short and to the point as ever. _

Sansa curtsies again. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

He leaves, striding away in a manner that is confident he’ll be followed. 

Sansa does go to follow him but…

Robb orders Greywind away from Meryn Trant who lets out a pitiful moan as the Direwolf’s teeth and weight leave him. Bannermen from houses Mormont and Glover rush forward to take his arms and haul him to his feet. Trant hangs between them, legs struggling weakly, his face pale from pain and blood loss. His filthy shirt is soaked with it. Red, dark, and already turning crusty.

“My Lady,” Cley Cerwyn says, looking down at her worriedly. “You do not want to see this—“ he moves as though to take her by the arm and guide her away but Sansa holds up a hand to stop him. She has seen worse, but this...this is not worse. Though she does not glory in violence or hate, this feels like a soothing balm. Like justice. 

Cley halts, unsure, and Sansa watches as Robb stands in front of Trant and with one swing, sends his fist crashing into his face. There’s a crunch, a sudden gush of blood, and Sansa knows his nose is broken. There was a lot of blood. On the floor, on his clothes...surely there was not much blood left? Trant’s struggles weaken and his head slumps only to be yanked backwards by one of her brother’s men. His eyes are glazed, eyelids fluttering as he struggles to remain conscious. Robb readies himself for another punch and Sansa turns away. She straightens and looks at her pale-faced guards and wary maid. 

She smiles.

“We should go. I mustn’t keep the King waiting.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments on my last Stannis/Sansa fic, you are all amazing and because of that, this fic is definitely all your fault! No really, you all inspired me to write this one :) 
> 
> I'm on tumblr as kissmybaratheonass
> 
> Also, this fic is not abandoned, I've had a VERY busy year (graduated, made a film, worked on another short film, formed a studio...) so writing is a little slow. I will finish all my Stansa fics, though it's best to hit the subscribe button if you want to be surprised with an update every few months!


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